Syzygy
by TheWillOfMythal
Summary: "You know what I'm ready for? Things to be easy." "We can do easy." But life after prison isn't. Alex struggles for stability, and when Piper comes up with a timid request, she realizes that being a prisoner might have been the easier part compared to this new challenge. ...She has never been very good in denying Piper anything though. An after Litchfield story. Vauseman.
1. Chapter 1

Hi everyone!

So... I'm back with a new story :)

Once again I've been sitting on this "project" for longer than I shouldn't admit, meaning I might have started working on this while I was finishing posting my one-shot series "Specks of Dust", and _yes_, before I even started my "Pleasure of Business" AU story.

I know... It's a long time, but you know how much I love to take my time with these two characters :D Anyway, before I leave you to it I have to remind you that I still have no idea about what season six holds, and that I have no clue whatsoever about what season seven's possible plot could be about. This story just follows a few events that I have come up with to tie some loose ends, so if the events don't match up, or if the characters appear to be a bit OOC, that's probably the reason. This is my own hypothetical "endgame" let's say. Everything is canon till the end of season five, but this story takes place _after _both Piper and Alex are out of prison and living together. All the events that I have inserted (and mentioned in this first chapter) in between that period are just hypothetical turns my mind has come up with, so...

You know what? I think I'll stop rambling now and just... leave you to the chapter already with one more warning:

The M rating applies since this first chapter. There are some visual descriptions of blood and violence but also of... Uh... Other stuff.

Anyway... Here you go :)

I don't own Orange Is The New Black or any of the characters.

However, this story, the plot, and all the original characters in it, are the product of my sole imagination.

I'm just... experimenting with something new here.

As always I apologize for eventual grammar mistakes, English is not my first language.

Enjoy

* * *

You aren't sure about _any _of this.

Not one bit prepared and a total ignorant in the matter. (Not to mention... kind of old, too.)

And that's probably what scared you so much at first, when the subject first came up and got mentioned.

However, for an exceptional case, it turns out that you were wrong. Because getting more information (just... out of curiosity, of course) has the power to make you even more terrified actually, and make you realize that this must be the one and only case - coincidentally - where acknowledging and getting to know your so-called fear doesn't work in banishing all the demons floating around the subject.

_Go figures._

Just thinking about it is enough to fill you with anxiety and dread and a full load of other troubling feelings you want _nothing_ to do with.

Nope.

Just... no way.

_Nuh uh._

You have hung up your trouble-making/fuck-up labeled mantle the moment you have taken off the jumpsuit for the last time.

You are officially _done_ with drama and any kind of complicated, generally-troubling situation for like... three lifetimes you believe, according to the latest count.

But...

You sigh.

There is _always_ a but.

And there is_ always_ the one and same reason behind it that there's always been.

_Piper._

And Piper seems to really,_ really_ want this.

You can tell, even without her having said a word more regarding _the subject_ since that one time she brought it up about a couple of weeks ago and you practically laughed in her face thinking that she was in the mood for jokes or something.

Yeah,_ right._

Hilarious.

_...Idiot._

Because _you knew_, even back then, that_ she wasn't_ joking.

Nor you had reason to believe she was. If anything in fact, you know that she's always had such desire. That, eventually, stability was something she would have longed for.

But brushing it off as a bad quip then, is not only how you still tend to deal with things, occasionally - as you don't even have to defend with your new, far too intuitive therapist (yet another change in your life you are not particularly content with) - but it was also better than having a real conversation about something you have rarely, distantly thought about and not even Once with the serious intention that it could be an actual option for you, and honestly? Not something you have ever desired, really.

Monogamy?

Sure.

A lifetime spent with the love of your life?

You even have a ring on your finger to prove the seriousness of such commitment even though you hadn't indulged in the thought of marriage either. That's it until you both went through a nightmare together, and the lovable _dork_ that is your spouse cryptically handed you over a can of beans.

Anything more than marriage and the seriousness of commitment that comes with it though...

You are just...

Well...

_Not_ maternal.

There.

Even just thinking about such word in fact, and the possibility of using it as a label for yourself, is enough to make you frown... and the image might even make you cringe a little.

Also, if you have to be completely honest, you don't think that with all the things that you have... gone through and Done, you are the most suitable person in the world to be a parent and a general role model for a kid.

_But Piper... _

You sigh, again.

Because you can see the glimpses of that side of her brighten like tiny little stars blinking in the blue of her eyes, and the joy that it brings her - shimmering all the brighter into them - every time she plays with Cal's son._ Her nephew._

You, however, are perfectly content (more than just content actually, to the point that some times you can scarcely believe it) about the way things have turned out in the end.

You look forward to getting to bed at the end of a long, tiring day and scoot away from the edge that is your side and meet Piper there in the middle, where she is already waiting for you to cuddle her frame, even though... lately, she seems to have grown particularly fond of cradling yours, especially...

Especially after you wake up in the middle of the night, sweating and distressed, _disoriented_, because of the umpteenth nightmare.

Which is... another valid reason that you believe doesn't make you suitable for the kind of life-long job Piper would like you to sign up for with her.

Also... you highly doubt that if things were to change because of a new... _tiny_ addition, you would have some of that precious time that you currently have to indulge into something for yourselves.

Not to mention that your apartment, for how quaint and homey, doesn't have enough room to hold another person. It is, in fact, quite inadequate with all the sharp corners and low windows and a couple of potentially dangerous, substandard electrical outlets and the pretty steep flights of stairs.

No.

The apartment would definitely have to go.

But the issue doesn't stand since you aren't going to do this.

At the moment, you are in no condition to even _co_nsider the idea.

...Not at a _conscious_ level at least...

**. . .**

The office is small.

Cozy even.

The decor is simple and neat but not dull.

It does have a touch of character that doesn't unbalance the rest of the... _pleasant_, clean ambiance.

The warm, earthy colors of the surrounding put you at ease. Not like the sterile white and gray walls of the other studies you have been into before this one.

Piper would probably like it, and make some comment about the fabric and design of the modern upholstery, too.

The afternoon's glow seeping through the slit of the curtains covering the tall windows lends the surrounding an even warmer, soothing touch, rendering the study look surprisingly all the more welcoming.

You find yourself surprised that you actually _like it_ in here. Even though the reason _why _you are here is less than appealing, and definitely _not _the kind of appointment you find yourself looking forward to each week. _Twice_ a week.

But it's not like you have much of a choice...

The chair you sit onto is comfortable too, but you still squirm onto it.

It has nothing to do with the piece of furniture itself though.

But it has _everything_ to do with the appreasing look veiled by a polite (even friendly) smile that the woman sitting across from you is giving you.

"How are you doing today, Alex?"

Doctor Campbell is not the kind of therapist you expected to be assigned to after the failure that the two previous, incompetent ones that the Feds had recommended you to have turned out to be.

She is...

_nice._

A middle-aged woman with a slim constitution that makes her look even smaller inside the knitted dark blue sweater that she is wearing today, which looks at least two sizes bigger on her slender frame.

The old-style square glasses sitting on the bridge of her nose are also a bit too large for her face, but the eyes behind the lenses are naturally warm and genuinely kind.

Her features are pleasing enough, and her wrinkles not so marked to make you unable to assume that she must have been an attractive woman when she was younger. Like two decades ago.

Whatever her hair color was back then, now her locks have turned into a proud gray that brush her narrow shoulders in soft, gentle waves.

She has this generally... oddly reassuring appearance.

But what is most important, is that her methods seem to be far different from the clinical ones you have been scrutinized under before you got assigned to her. Although, you still act cautiously around her, even though the light, conversational-like approach that she has initiated with you in these first three sessions, and her seemingly genuine interest is exactly what makes it a bit more difficult for you to keep your guard up.

As it proves with the far-too-honest reply that you offer in return to her question.

"I'm... not sure how to answer that." You admit, shifting a bit more in your seat, as if feeling uncomfortable by your own honesty. And even though her gaze doesn't make you nervous, the fact of being under scrutiny still has a way to make you a bit squirmy, no matter how... _sociable_ this entire approach is.

You just _really don't_ like therapy.

But, once again, you simply _have_ to do it.

It's all part of your... _deal._

And so, you endure it.

As you endure over and over questions like:

"Have you had trouble sleeping?" Even though, you have to admit that when Doctor Campbell asks you that question, she actually sounds and looks genuinely interested, not like one of your previous so-called/excuse-of-therapists who barely looked at you and just checked boxes off a list of symptoms.

Doctor Campbell actually asks you if "Did you wake up rested this morning?"

And it's because of that interest veiled by a note of genuine concern that you actually feel a bit bad for scoffing in her face, but really, you can't help it. Because, after all...

"Having my wife kidnapped from my former drug-trafficking employer after he had found out that I was still alive, using her as a hostage to lure me out of prison, forcing me to escape with a prison break because no one would believe me, and then living the most terrifying night of my life... It makes sleeping at night as easy as getting smacked in the head with a rusty pipe by said former employer." You answer, bitingly, (deliberately leaving out the part of the traffic noises coming from the streets below your apartment building, which are driving you slowly insane each passing day) going through the summary without lingering on the details, because the last thing you want is to relive (once again) the most terrifying nightmare you ever had to live.

Unexpectedly, there is none of that annoying, utterly fake and compassionate "That must have been awful" that you have heard before countless times, from police, feds, marshals, previous therapists and all that bunch when you had to explain _what_ happened.

Instead, Doctor Campbell's lips twitch into an unexpected smile.

"Still very fond of sarcasm I see."

Ok. So maybe it's _not_ so unexpected.

She appears to be genuinely amused by that default defense mechanism of yours, and her comment is enough for you to lower your guard just a bit further. And that is more than enough for the doctor to catch you completely unprepared when she asks- or rather_ points out_ that...

"This is not what is troubling you today, though, is it?"

You almost startle in your seat.

She is attentive.

For a moment her dark eyes narrow into two suspicious, knowing slits as she appreases you in a way you are not used to.

It puts you a bit off balance, knowing that someone (even if that someone happens to be a therapist trained to catch the most minimal reactions in traumatized people) is able to see through your defenses and your sting of sarcasm _so _easily.

...you know only_ one_ other person who can do it so effortlessly.

And, as always, She also happens to be the main reason behind your most recent, troubling thoughts. The ones that have inevitably sprung from this new... _idea_\- this new life-changing _experience_ your spouse would like to make with you. Summoning a whole new horde of hungry demons ready to feast on those new fears that mentioning the subject has inevitably brought to the surface.

"Piper wants to have a baby..."

It actually takes you a moment - still shocked- _dazed_ as you are about such an arguable _rquest _\- to realize that the words have _actually _slipped out from your lips _and _into the open, and not simply rung in your head. And when such realization comes, your entire frame stiffens up. Your head snaps up. Eyes wide. Startled like a deer.

For the following moment, you don't even dare to breathe. As if it would make up for that slip.

As if the words- that _revelation_, would be sucked back in from where it came. And for the first time since you have started this whole... therapy thing, you actually find yourself _dreading_ for a reaction.

For an _opinion._

But... all you receive in return from Doctor Campbell after having involuntarily blurted out such thing, is a humming-like noise.

A noncommittal sound.

That's it.

And... it actually doesn't even strike you at first why you feel so... _annoyed_ by such a... non-response.

Although, contradictorily, you feel also oddly _comforted_ by the fact that she doesn't show any interest in jotting down any kind of note regarding the subject, even when - after a few moments spent appreasing you - she asks the question that you have been asking to yourself for the past week or so.

"And you don't share this desire she has?"

She picks up her pen then, but doesn't click it. She just... twists it somehow distractedly in her bony hand.

"I..." You hesitate, shifting once more in your seat, feeling a bit overwhelmed by the amount of emotions and sensations that springs within you at the thought. They grow into this tight, heavy, white-hot knot that threatens to choke you up from the inside, almost to the point where you can hardly feel your ribcage expand.

You can only close your eyes and force yourself to take a silent deep breath through your nose, willing that feeling away, shaking your head to try to dispell those thoughts (along with the feelings that follow suit as a result) and find your grasp on reasoning, which is the only thing you seem to be able to rely on whenever this subject comes up.

_Reason. _

Logic.

An honest self-evaluation.

The same kind that you put into your answer.

"I don't think that I'm the most suitable person on the planet to be a parent."

You've never voiced this.

Not out loud.

Not even_ to Piper_.

And saying this to a complete stranger while omitting it to the love of your life is a realization that actually _hurts_, swelling the guilt that is still there, knotted tightly in your stomach, and growing spikes that poke at you from the inside.

Although... You guess that it would have hurt _much_ worse seeing her expression, and see the hope fade from those deep, bottomless blue pools if you would have been this honest with her.

Not that laughing in her face has gotten you a better reaction.

_...Idiot._

The odd sense of relief and liberation that you experience in the moment you express your... _personal opinion_ on the matter, however, is short-lived. Because feeling good about feeling good in uttering that truth out loud, has a way to make you feel _awful._

The meaning in your own words is crushing with all the weight of a reality you are stubbornly struggling to hold up on your own.

"What makes you think that?" Doctor Campbell asks you then, her eyebrows knitting in puzzlement. Her dark eyes appreasing you closely, but not intrusively. Still, even under such gentle scrutiny, having such _an obvious_ question addressed at you with that look of confusion, makes you scoff.

"Let's see..." You summarize, once again hiding behind the familiar, comforting mantle of sarcasm. "I am a former drug trafficker who's ended up in prison, I have dragged the love of my life into the entire mess out of anger. The only time I have tried to do something right and trusted the system I have ended up with a target on my back. Piper got me sent back to prison (because backstabbing was our twisted way of courtship back then) where I was almost killed by a former colleague and friend who, ironically enough, ended up dead by my hand-_ Literally._ I've let someone else- the very same person who _saved my life_ take the fault for it because, besides being a backstabbing murderer, I was also a coward - and then, after all that went down with the riot, the kidnapping and all of that... _mess_, once my former boss found out that I wasn't dead as I made him believe, and he found out that Piper was free, he took advantage of that, kidnapped her and forced me to come out in the open with a prison break that made me a fugitive."

If a part of you, for how small, was expecting to somehow impress the woman sitting across from you with the sting of your sarcasm, well... you haven't.

Doctor Campbell merely blinks.

Her expression so frustratingly unreadable after your unnecessary summary.

She has your file.

She is very well aware of your story.

Of the reason _why_ you are currently here, in her office, having this entire... _conversation_ with her.

And even though (despite your own cognizance and natural skill in reading human expressions) you can't seem to be able to understand what is it behind such look beside the (somehow comforting) lack of judgment.

However, she doesn't let your thorough_ summary_ divert the focus from the real subject and the reason that brought you to bring up all these compelling (and somehow defensive) arguments in the first place.

"You have been through quite an ordeal, indeed." She acknowledges, both sympathetically but also (mostly - as you prefer) matter of factly, which actually helps in relaxing your defensive stance a little.

"The juridic system is far from infallible." Doctor Campbell continues. "It hasn't been fair to you, and the situation you have had to face because of such injustice has been hazardous to a life-threatening extent. But..." She pauses, changing position, recrossing her legs and leaning forward ever so slightly, enough for you to notice better the way the crinkles at the corners of her eyes deepen as they narrow with honest confusion. "Why do you believe any this is of relevance regarding possible parenthood?"

This time, you _do_ a double take.

Looking at her in between incredulous and dumbstruck. Because... _is she for real?_

Isn't it... _blindingly obvious?_

The unchanging expression that is still there, tugging on your therapist's features, says that no. _Apparently not._

Or maybe _it is_. And she just wants to hear _you_ say it for yourself.

You would probably find it incredibly annoying in any other circumstance, but right now, you have no problem in admitting that-

"I would be a_ shitty _role model for a child."

There.

Those you have just listed through that summary are the main reasons why you feel this way. But there is also the part regarding the fact that you still don't have a job, you still freak out when you hear sirens, you can barely tolerate the smell of gasoline, and, sometimes, when you are out, walking down the street, you _swear_ that you can still see _his_ face among the crowd of people.

You are starting to believe that you'll never be free of _him_.

No matter that he is gone. That he can't hurt you or Piper anymore._ Ever again._

You have the impression that you'll always have to watch over your back, at every turn, every corner. Take the longer route home and slip into a store whenever you have the impression that someone might be following you.

How could you _ever_ take care of a child in your current conditions?

How could Piper_ believe_ anything _different_ from that? Enough to make the request?

You can _barely_ take care of yourself and hold your crumbling pieces together only because you have _her_ functioning as tape.

You can't even provide a financial contribution at the moment that doesn't come from that nest egg you have (thankfully) put aside and hid somewhere safe before going to prison - at least you were smart enough even back then to do something like that.

It grants you some certainty. But... it's not the same if you can't properly provide with an actual, _honest_ and stable job.

Slipping back into that territory is dangerous. But there is nothing that you can do to avoid those feelings of uselessness, of powerlessness that spring from your current reality, and that, inevitably, forcefully drags you back to that night.

You duck your head, and your gaze falls into your lap, where you have been absently tracing the deep, rough scar bisecting the center of your palm with your other hand.

_...You were the one who was supposed to save her that night._

You have risked _everything_ to make sure she was unharmed.

You broke out of prison to make sure she was _safe_. The hell with the consequences.

And now... Now you are hunted by nightmares and guilt and the crippling _"what could I have done differently"_ merging with that feeling of powerlessness that you have lived that night and that still persists after all this time.

A single tear slides down your cheek when you blink, and you swiftly wipe it away with the pad of your thumb.

"Does it still bother you?"

You don't have to look up to know that your therapist's gaze is lingering on the scar in your right hand.

The temptation to close it, turn it around or move it away- _hide it_, to pretend that you weren't looking at it while getting lost in those memories, as well as the temptation to blatantly _lie_, is strong.

_But..._

What's the point to be here and lie when you are here to be honest about your feelings and make progress?_ Healing?_

You squirm once more in your seat. Because the thought makes you uncomfortable, but, eventually, after releasing a steady breath through your nose, you nod.

"Yes..." You murmur at last, barely above a shaky whisper.

It's been almost a year since all_ that-_ since _the surgery_. You have done your rehabilitation sessions but... There is this still that... _sting_ that just won't leave you be.

"Maybe you haven't accepted it yet..."

It sounds more like an actual guess than a statement the one that Doctor Campbell offers you in response along with a gentle, barely hinted, understanding smile when you finally glance up at her.

And you can't argue with that.

You can in fact only confirm her words.

"I don't think I'll ever accept what happened that night."

You barely murmur it.

Your voice is raw with the tears you are smothering in the back of your throat, but there is still firmness into your tone. A certainty you cannot waver from.

Honesty is supposed to make you feel better. But if you were somehow expecting that admitting this detail out loud would have been of comfort... it isn't.

The entire... psychosomatic reasons or whatever behind the pain lacerating your hand, in fact, makes you feel like you might be making even less progress than you aren't.

If anything, it feels like you might be burrowing your way further into that cold, dark abyss from where any negative thought emerges.

Like a bubbling tar pit you are stubbornly, sadistically trying to cross while unavoidably keeping getting stuck into.

Luckily though, your new therapist - perceptive as she seems to be - upon noticing the swirl of emotions fluttering about you and seeing you getting swallowed by that vortex, throws you a rope of compassion, even if _you_ are still the one who has to do all the climbing.

"What you and your wife have been through... It's very rough, Alex." Surprisingly, the gentle note of compassion in Doctor Campbell's voice manages to somehow disrupt the dark thoughts that were starting to cloud your mind again. And you are even more surprised when it doesn't instinctively trigger that same old defensive response.

"You have suffered a great trauma." She continues, just as sympathetically rather than clinically. "But even if you are taking your time to heal as you should, you also shouldn't discard the thoughts regarding how the rest of your life could be like now as a free woman. With no more threats to be concerned about over your lives. And what the future could hold, for you _and_ for Piper, _together,_ as spouses."

It's implied.

The whole... conversation gets brought back to its primary focus.

She doesn't explicitly say it though.

She doesn't say "_family"._

She doesn't say "_baby"_.

But the concept held in her words, and the look held in her attentive, kind dark eyes, spell it out nonetheless. And in front of such firm conviction, you can't help but feel even more uncertain.

"What about my... situation?" You ask. "My PTSD? All the things that I have..." You swallow, hard. Diverting your gaze. Glancing down, where you have unconsciously been fidgeting with a loose thread on the sleeve of your jacket. Your fingers twitch, tightening, and you rip it off without even meaning to.

"...that I have _done_." You finish, barely mumbling the words under your breath, as if saying it so softly would also keep the demons quieter.

It doesn't.

You can hear them hissing beyond that veil that, despite your attempts to keep it intact, it still feels like it might be tearing off, along with a good portion of your sanity.

"All you have done," Your therapist chides in, reassuringly, taking your defenses, leaning in and searching your gaze. An unexpected, honest protectiveness that surely manages to pull you out from your self-misery and get your attention. "Has been_ protecting_ the person you _love_." She states. Firmly. Unwavering.

"You have gone through such great extends, faced many mortal threats all to make sure that Piper was safe."

Your lips part as if you might have something to say but... Despite the frown creasing your eyebrows and that instinct to counter, you can't actually reply to that.

"Even your escape charge has been reduced to its minimum given the circumstances."

Here, however, you scoff a little. A soft breathy sound that slips past your lips in self-deprecation.

"Yeah..." You agree. "If only I had the time to summon the Special Master and play the _"future murder"_ card I could have gotten my out-of-prison free-pass." You quip sarcastically. But once again, your therapist seems all but affected by it.

"Timing and circumstances may have not been the most favorable," She acknowledges, reasoning. "But even so, because of such additional challenges, you have still proven your nature and shown the extends you would reach to protect someone you love, just like anyone would do. Just like _anyone_ would have probably _done_ in your situation."

Here though, even if she is clearly trying to reduce your sense of guilt, you don't remain silent.

You lift your gaze and lock it with hers.

Hard and stone cold.

"I have also killed _two people_."

Frustratingly so, however, Doctor Campbell doesn't look in the least affected. Not in the way you expected (maybe even _wanted)_ her to be at least by the harshness of such reminder.

"You were only defending yourself. In _both_ situations." She simply repeats, trying to banish once again the demons that creep under the surface of your cracked, frayed soul. "You did what was necessary to ensure your safety and the one of the woman you love."

You... _did._

And you have been telling yourself that same thing. Tricking yourself into believing it until such tactic actually worked.

Although... You doubt that reducing it to that justification might actually be working for you.

Not to mention that you still have some doubts about _where_, exactly, your therapist might be going with _all of this._

"What are you saying then?" That same frustration urges you to simply ask her at last. "That my actions are justified? I know that one was, but the other..." The other is so gray that seeing it as entirely black at this point has become the only way you can deal with it.

"How could I _ever_ explain such thing to a kid? Should I just..._ accept it_ and _go_ for Piper's _idea_ without a second thought?"

For once, you don't even mean to be so... uncharacteristically, _fiercely_ defensive. It's not how you usually react. Not how you have ever reacted with any of your previous therapists. And it gets reminded to you when you see Doctor Campbell scribbling something on her notepad before putting down the pen and leaning forward onto her seat, her bony hands joined, her eyes meeting yours in a clinically appreasing gaze you struggle to hold right now, but you still resist the almost overwhelming temptation to look away and squirm under the weight that it holds.

"I believe that we should never do something we don't want to do or aren't ready for." She says, calmly, her voice so soothing and understanding, just like the smile that starts to slowly tug at her pursed lips. As if she already _knows_ something that _you don't_. Something that you haven't realized..._ Yet._

"But considering Piper's request and experiencing some understandable doubts about not being ready... those are not the issues here that really bother you,_ are they?_"

There.

_The implication._

It's like a pang.

Something inside your chest swelling and stumbling all over itself before coming to a crashing halt.

It slams against the back of your sternum with enough force to knock the air from your lungs in a stuttered silent exhale. Leaving you breathless. Your eyes grow wide, and your entire frame seizes at such implication- at _the truth _that has been whispering from somewhere hidden under your subconscious and that almost got lost under the persistent hiss of the demons closing around you.

It's startling.

_Terrifying._

And yet, (unreasonably so, almost paradoxically) not so... _Unpleasant._

As it is the swirl of feelings that spring from having that... question addressed to you with that rhetorical tone.

You stay there, unmoving.

Your palms sweat as you try to process and sort through all of these new... to put your thoughts into a resemblance of order that would make you do more than just stay there, lips parting and closing with a question that you, with all of your enviable eloquence, don't know how to put into words and_ push them_ past the sudden dryness in your throat.

"W-what is that supposed _to_-"

Eventually though, just when you get a strong enough hold on yourself and manage to make your own, uncharacteristically nervous voice collaborate, stumbling embarrassingly over your own words, you get interrupted by the alarm going off and signaling the end of your session.

It's barely above a buzzing noise but... It's more than enough to still catch you off guard.

If only that sudden sound would startle you out from your still dumbfounded state like it startles you from your seat...

Not such luck.

"It's okay," Doctor Campbell assures you, much to your embarrassment, flashing you a smile before picking up the notepad resting in her lap and closing it. "This is enough for today." She states with that same oddly comforting smile and... normally you couldn't be happier about the end of the session. But... Your latest, unanswered question persists. Bouncing against the edges of your mind.

And... you don't know whether you should feel relieved, grateful or whatelse when your extremely attentive therapist provides you with an answer.

"I do believe that you should talk to Piper about this and tell her what you feel. What you _really_ feel, and why." She stresses, firmly locking her gaze with your before you can find your voice again and counter to her knowing assumption, maybe even overthrow it out of an instinct you have never felt before this very moment, and that throws you quite a bit off balance.

"Even if the thought makes you more than a bit uncomfortable." Doctor Campbell promptly adds, with that same knowing, teasingly accusatory smile twitching at the corner of her mouth.

Unsure on how you should respond to her... suggestion, and still far too stunned to provide a verbal answer, you just nod, swallowing the knot of nervousness that seems to be lodged in that space somewhere in between your throat and chest.

Wiping your hand on the front of your pants before you stand up may help in getting rid of the moisture that has formed on your palms, but it doesn't certainly hide the heat or the light tremor of nervousness in your grasp from someone as attentive as your new therapist when you shake hands.

"You have my number in case of emergency," Doctor Campbell promptly reminds you, and you acknowledge such reminder with another nod, forcing a mumbled "Thank you" past that stubborn knot stuck in your throat.

At least you aren't so dazed to completely forget your manners.

The urge to leave is strong, the need to breathe some air, to be somewhere open is so overwhelming that it's making you _itch_.

You head for the door, ready and _eager_ to leave, but before you can reach for the handle and step outside the office, Doctor Campbell speaks up again, and the new layer of caution and gentleness in her voice is what draws your attention back to her with even more urgency.

"Having a child is indeed a great responsibility and not a decision that should be taken lightly." She acknowledges, with the same amount of seriousness that you have taken in the subject since it first got brought up with Piper. Well... _after_ you have laughed in her face.

_Idiot..._

"I do understand your concerns, Alex." Your therapist finally admits, offering you what looks like an honestly friendly-like smile and the most profound understanding that refrains you from scoffing. "_But..._"

And there is it again.

That gentler, tentative smile that paradoxically makes you all the more nervous and leaves you squirming with trepidation about what she may be going to say next.

"Having an infant to take care of, someone so undefended who needs your attentions and love, who relies _on you_ to go through life... Brings a whole new instinct in you to protect and preserve that is life changing... And it can also be profoundly healing."

You frown. Initially confused by what she might be suggesting. And then, once realization sinks in, your back straightens and you jaw twitches. "I'm _not_ going to agree to Piper's... _request_ just because _I need healing._"

There is no doubt there. It's simply_ not_ up to discussion.

You aren't going to use... This... _Opportunity_... as an excuse for your entire healing process.

No way.

The idea alone might be up there with all the other most absurd and selfish reasons people decide to have a child.

Your voice has gained that defensive edge again. But the bite in your tone, conveyed even more strongly by your piercing gaze, doesn't actually sting as much as you think it must, given that Doctor Campbell actually _smiles_ at you - as if she expected nothing less - before shaking her head in negative.

"That's not at all what I was suggesting."

And there, you get all the more confused.

"You may not see it or believe it," She continues before you have a chance to express your bewilderment, providing an answer by choosing another approach.

"Or perhaps you see it just from a certain angulation and under that same light and focus you have chosen as lens." She speculates. "But your life and the choices you have taken in these difficult situations might as well have_ shaped you_ to be a role model."

Once again you get dumbstruck by what you think she might be implying.

"The decision is yours." She repeats and you can just... watch, still trying to process... whatever it is she just said to you, while she retreats behind her desk.

"Whether you'll follow through with it or not, you do know what the real values of life are." She says, flashing you another one of those half-compassionate, half-reassuring smiles from before. "And I have no doubt that you would know how to teach them to a child as well."

**. . .**

You leave your therapist's office with more questions than you didn't have when you first arrived.

Infinitely more confused, and with a whole new perspective that you hadn't taken in consideration until you left.

Doctor Campbell's parting words echo in your head for the rest of the afternoon.

Keeping you wondering if what she has said and what you have interpreted might be the same things.

If there might be a chance that you could have misunderstood the meaning behind them.

If she actually _meant it_ when she said those things or if she was just hoping to get _a reaction_ from you.

Therapists are sneaky.

But...

No.

You dismiss the thought as soon as it presents.

Because that's _not_ how she operates.

Nonetheless, the doubt keeps poking at the edge of your mind.

Even if those words that she said to you at the end felt more... _personal_. More like... _an advice_ than a professional assessment.

Perhaps even _an encouragement._

And while you keep rummaging more closely into the possible reason why she would try to encourage you, at last, you deduce that if she said those things, it is because she _must_ have meant them.

And if she happened to have _that smile_ while she was saying them, it was because she has seen that part in you waver with doubt about _your own doubts_ floating around the..._ subject._

The whole sessions has left you with a lot to think about.

More than you can rationally process, or have the energy to do, at the moment.

And you still have some serious issues in believing the implication regarding how (for how controversial) your bad choices and mistakes have somehow made you a better person in the end.

Which is - now that you think better about it - _not _as paradoxical or laughable as it first sounded, actually.

Prison has undoubtedly changed you.

What happened _that night_ has broken you into the sharp pieces you are still trying to pick up and put back together with some help.

And, _a__pparently_, standing on what your doctor has _advised _and_ pointed out _to you, you have become the kind of person who should at least _consider_ this... _new option_ on the table. Give it a second and a more thorough glance from another perspective before dismissing it entirely out of some intangible fear that has lured more demons out from their hiding place in your subconscious.

Because of those events and how they have affected you, you have become the kind of person who (despite being in a deep, brooding mood) is returning at home, to her wife, by foot, _with flowers._ Because you saw a florist's stand along the panoramic route that you have taken across the park and found them pretty and thought of her.

A decade ago you would have probably found one or two things _wrong... _or at the very least a bit _off_ with this entire... scenario.

Even now though, the gesture is _so_ unexpected that you aren't in the least offended when Piper gives you this half-quizzical look dashed with that amused little smile as soon as you step into your apartment.

She has _every_ right to be surprised.

(You are, too.)

And she has just _every_ right to look at you with that hint of suspicious in her slightly narrowed blue eyes into which you can clearly read that silent, mostly playful_ "What have you done? What kind of trouble have you gotten yourself into this time?"_

Eventually, though, the amused smile that is at the base of that whole expression... wins out. Stretching across her face, digging twin dimples on her cheeks, and looking just as radiant as the sun blazing outside in the late afternoon sky.

It's _so bright_ that you almost feel the urge to look away.

But you don't.

You could use some of that brightness to scorch the dark fears hiding between the fringes of your frayed soul.

Or maybe it is the bits of self-consciousness that swells unfamiliarly inside you (perhaps even challenging your stubborn, pale complexion and doing the impossible by tinging your cheeks into a foreign shade of pink) when she just keeps you there. _Waiting._ With that smile shifting into an unpracticed, awkward_ smirk_ that makes her entire expression look all the more endearing.

She is probably snapping a mental picture of you like this: with your arm stretched out, awkwardly holding the bouquet. A picture that (you realize) is actually missing from the vast collection of memories that you share.

In the end, just when you were almost starting to squirm, she takes the flowers, sets them gently aside, and pulls you into an embrace that is just as warm and comforting as the heat of summer lingering and stretching under the looming shadow of the approaching autumn.

It's only then, however, when she takes you in her arms, that you notice that she is still wearing her blazer. And before your eyes flutter shut upon inhaling the first whiff of her scent, you also notice her briefcase resting on one of the stools of the kitchen island.

She must have gotten home from work just a couple of minutes ago, right before you did.

Of all the things... You think, inwardly chuckling.

Because Piper has gotten a job in _a school_.

Putting her degrees into excellent use by helping middle school kids suffering from some kind of language disorder, while also helping some of the more... problematic high-school kids that are taking a worrying turn.

She is... Not exactly a teacher, and not really a counselor either.

But she is a figure where problematic kids can turn towards without having to worry about the judgment of an actual teacher.

Ultimately, she tries to help the more _difficult_ ones by speaking directly to them from experience. Making _a living_ out of what she has _lived_, in a way.

The irony.

And then they say that_ crime doesn't pay..._

It isn't lost on you how your roles, compared to how they were more than a decade ago, have now switched. But... while you are pleased to see that Piper likes and is good in doing what she does, you aren't as content for not being able to provide a stable, financial support.

The thought is another one to add to the seemingly never-ending list of things that make you uncomfortable. Just like how much this part of the city (and all the noises filling it) is consequently making you feel more and more anxious. Especially around this time of the year...

Your apartment might not be much either. But _this_\- the cradle between Piper's arms, the embrace she pulls you in after having gone through this kind of day, is the place where you feel like you truly belong to and _nowhere _else.

The world seems to grow a bit quieter whenever you get pulled into her arms.

You can trust to _always _feel welcomed between them. Especially when the dark thoughts and the guilt are closing down around you, cornering you, grabbing you by the throat and cutting off your air supply.

Instinctively, you bury your face into the crook of her neck, breathing in more deeply the scent of her, and in the moment you do, it's almost like your lungs expand for the first time in all day.

Even the knot that was there, stuck between your chest and throat starts to unfurl.

And it's _so_ relieving that it actually _hurts._

For how simple, the act even helps in slowing down the frenzy of your restless thoughts.

"You okay, baby?"

Piper can still feel it though.

She has probably seen it too, under the surprise you have just thrown at her by showing up with flowers.

She knows when something is troubling you.

She can _feel_ that tension coming off you despite the way your body sags into her embrace.

And you simply _hate_ to burden her like this, no matter how indirect and involuntary such reaction is.

Even just hearing her voice though, laced with that soft thread of affection, so gentle and tentative, and feeling her hand stroking your back makes you melt a little bit further- and also purr (not so differently than how a kitten would do you imagine) when that hand reaches further up, resting on the back of your neck and distractedly massaging away the tension that stubbornly keeps gathering on that spot that gives your state away so easily.

You exhale a long breath, hopefully releasing some more of that tension with it.

You have made your peace and accepted that it's going to take a long while for you to properly heal. To make sure that all those cracked pieces are going to stay in place and meld with the others enough to make you feel whole again.

"Yes..." You answer eventually with a sigh, wrapping your arms around Piper's frame and pulling her just that tiny bit tighter to you. Because she is a good super glue, who can keep the old, fragile, fragmented ceramic vase that you are, together.

Time and therapy will hopefully do the rest.

But for now, in this moment "...I am."

How you _wish_ it was _that_ simple though...

That you could get away with such response. No matter how honest it feels to you at the moment.

Because if there is something that you have both grown even better at after the_ "most recent" _events, however, it's reading each other even more profoundly than you did before.

And even though you sound convinced, (even though you _are_ convinced) and your voice doesn't waver, Piper - who seems to have developed a whole new sense that allows her to feel and _see_ what is it hiding under the surface of your troubled spirit and what has caused it to disrupt its placidness and crease it into a series of ripples - is quite able to spot how... uneasy you still feel, seeing the glimpses of the shadows creeping from beneath this new layer of comfort that being pulled into her arms has (even if just temporarily) laid over your troubling thoughts.

Or maybe it is the way you hold her against you, the way you actually _cling_ onto her - with that need that might border into something more... _strained_ \- is what must give your true, despondent state away.

It's probably a combination of all those small details what makes her pull back then.

And when you (reluctantly) let her, and just as reluctantly meet her gaze, those endless blue pools stare back at you with caution. Unsure whether to believe your words. But mostly... _Concerned._

You can barely hold her gaze when you see her features shaping into _that_ expression.

She wants to ask you how your session went.

If something came up that has upset you more than usual.

She wants to ask if you would like to talk about it with her.

She has been encouraging you to. Doing her best to not... press _too hard._.

The hope that you will say yes is also there, hiding behind the question itself, which you can read all over her face. But for how guilty you feel at the prospect of denying that silent request one more time, you aren't in the least when, torn in between uncertainty, the further need for comfort pushes through and makes you lean in, planting a kiss on her lips.

It's supposed to be nothing more than a gentle peck.

You aren't even so ashamed to admit that you might do it to _prevent_ her from asking you _that_ question.

But... the softness and the light sweetness that you find on her lips... It sparks that same flame inside you that makes you forget about what kind of _mess_ you are.

And when Piper, after a moment of stillness, actually returns the kiss, it provides that comfort that you need, the kind you were seeking.

The rest of your relentless thoughts grow quieter, as so does your troubled spirit when she deepens it just that tiny bit to more to elicit a series of flutters in your belly.

They spread through your insides and limbs,_ tingling_ on your fingertips like warm tiny sparks of electricity.

Such... electrical charge makes the needle of your inner compass stops from spinning, setting it - along with the axis of your being - into its proper place.

The expression that you find on Piper's face when you part grounds you into _this_ reality, because even though there are still traces of concern weighing on her features, the deep adoration that you see shimmering in her blue eyes is pure and uncontaminated.

There is _no_ judgment in there.

Those eyes don't scrutinize you the way you have been (for how subtly and carefully) this afternoon. They already_ know you_.

And she_ sees you._

"My new therapist seems to be completely unaffected by my sarcasm."

To say that you get caught off guard by uttering such admission would be an understatement.

You don't actually even_ know _from where it comes from.

It's not exactly random though, since your thoughts have once again brought you back to your afternoon's appointment.

But under the initial, almost startling surprising - and judging from the laughs that tumbles from Piper's lips before they stretch into the most amused, utterly pleased _grin_, then she is absolutely _delighted_ to receive such information and... just as delighted to see the light pout that you might not even be aware your bottom lip has pursed ever so slightly into, disrupting the forlorn, deeply brooding expression that has been creasing your features.

"Aww," She even _cooes_. And that sound on its own manages to elicit that same, unfamiliar warmth that rises foreignly from your neck and scalds your cheeks. "Disappointed that she doesn't find your cynicism and satire as charming as _I_ do?"

You glare and _scowl_ at her for making fun of you.

She just laughs again.

Just as unaffected by any trace of warning in your look as Doctor Campbell was by your sarcasm.

Maybe because you lean into her touch in the most contradictory way when she tries to apologetically soothe the sting of her teasing by stroking that same spot on the back of your neck.

And... to be honest, you truly _can't_ deny how much (in the most positive way) it affects you hearing her warm laugh, as well as seeing the spark of light that makes those blue eyes shimmer all the brighter, see the twin dimples that dig onto her cheeks, as well as receiving the kiss that she plants on the corner of your mouth.

It's so soothing in fact, that it does more than make up for that light sting that your ego just received. For _the second time_ today.

"She seems like a good doctor- _far better_ than the previous ones." Piper comments eventually, looking very pleased, and you can only nod in confirmation because, luckily, "She seems to be, yes."

The admission is enough to earn you yet another one of those full, bright smiles of hers. And in the moment of silence that follows, Piper doesn't look at you like she was doing earlier. With that searching (stealthily prying) gaze.

The smile on her lips softens, but it _lingers._

Maybe because this time you have spontaneously come up with a comment and shared _something_ out of your own volition about your session. Well... kind of. For how little it was - and for how unexpected it has been for you, too.

Some of that tension inevitably finds its way back into your muscles at the prospect of having to actually talk about _how_ it went and (more specifically) about_ what_ you have..._discussed_ during those fifty-five minutes, and Piper must definitely feel it.

However, she is the one who manages to surprise you this time.

"You don't have to tell me how it went, Al." She says, and there is nothing if not absolute honesty in both her voice and in her comforting gaze.

It's absurd how _relieved_ it immediately makes you feel, but also, at the same time,_ awful_. Guilty. Yet another contrast of emotions to add to that messy pile.

Because you should talk about these kind of things.

You_ promised_ to each other that you _always_ would.

You just... Really don't feel like doing it right now.

"We don't have to talk about it." Piper repeats, no doubt having caught that light spike of nervousness in your breathing. All it takes to get it to return to normal however, is plunging once more into those shimmering, rippling blue lakes, finding the same profound reassurance and understanding in there that her soothing voice and the little smile on her lips convey.

"In fact..." Your wife continues once she is sure (judging by the way your body relaxes once more under her touch) that you have managed to get a hold on your thoughts and emotions once again - enough for you to even hear that playful note seeping in her voice, rendering it all the more comforting.

"We can just... Start making dinner." She lightly suggests after a brief glance at the digital clock of the oven. And... it's a simple enough option that successfully gets all of your attention.

"I can wash the rice, slice and season the chicken," She presses on, the smile on her lips twitching that tiny bit higher- tentative and_ hopeful_ \- at your visible interest in hearing her rather... _appealing_ offer.

"And you can chop the vegetables while I entertain you with the kind of question I've been asked today and update you with the latests, utterly-garbage gossip I have heard buzzing through the school among the teachers."

You can't help but chuckle when she gives you this smile and wiggles her eyebrows in that way that says _"And I have some _good_ material to share today."_

The prospect of starting dinner, of focusing on something productive, of getting busy but not _too busy_, is exactly what you need right now. Piper's suggestion works perfectly given your current state, and that look, and that extra sprinkle that she deliberately throws in her offer to elicit a healthy dose of amusement and intrigue in you, it's more than enough for you to take the bait that she is dangling so temptingly in front of you.

"...Sounds like a plan." You say, and the reward for actually accepting her offer, comes with one of those grins that make the slowly setting sun warming the inside of your apartment look like a cold shadow in comparison.

It's contagious.

So contagious that you aren't even surprised when you find yourself smiling too... especially when those lovely dimples show up.

"Come on then," Piper invites you, tilting her head towards the kitchen, taking your hand in hers, affectionately stroking your knuckles with her thumb before giving it an equally inviting and encouraging little tug.

It's... so light and easy.

This approach of her.

So sincere.

_Effortless._

Almost...

_Maternal._

And there it is again.

_That word._ Ringing in your head one more time.

It's like an alarm going off.

And it sounds a lot like Doctor Campbell's voice. Like the echo of her parting words before you stepped out of her office.

The guilt about omission might have been suppressed, but it's still there._ Gnawing at you._

You really _should_ talk about _this_ with Piper.

About... That... _Idea_... that she has presented to you recently.

You are going to.

For now though, you just let her lead you to the kitchen, where she takes off her blazer, rolls up the sleeves of her shirt and fills a tall glass with tap water, improvising it as a vase for the flowers you brought her, all while you take off your own jacket, wash your hands and make space on the kitchen island for the two chopping boards, listening to the latest, entertaining sheganigans that her troubled bunch of kid- _of students_ tends to get into... Unable not to hear the note of pride that seeps into her voice when she tells you how many of them have made substantial progress just in the past couple of weeks. And you, consequently, can only tell her the truth about how you are proud of her.

She is patient.

She is compassionate and understanding.

She has a strong passion for what she does.

And she _truly_ cares.

Most of all though (as you well know) she is stubborn _as hell._

She would make a fantastic, _real_ teacher one day.

And it's because of all those same qualities that you know - without a doubt - that she would also make a great, _wonderful_ mother, too.

In front of such an unbendable truth, in front of this entire display that you have witnessed over and over in many different situations - either heard from her about her students, or saw with your own eyes whenever she plays with her nephew - your own doubts about yourself, about your currently... harrowing situation, and about the _subject_ itself, seem to grow smaller.

While your guilt about denying this to her grows bigger.

Stirring in the depths of your belly and crawling further up.

However...

For a moment, as you pause from chopping vegetables and exchange a look with your wife who is currently slicing chicken at your side - taking in this entire... domestic setting and ambiance you never thought you would feel truly comfortable in, you also realize that Piper's idea might be yet another one that could end up surprising you in a positive way.

Something that could work.

Something that you could _make it work._

The thought gives you this strange, unexpected, yet undoubtedly pleasant boost to your confidence, which swells inside your chest after having been forced into a corner for the entire afternoon that you have spent talking about you weaknesses and showing your vulnerabilities to a stranger along with listing all the reasons why you are probably the last person on earth who is cut for the... _job_.

Although...

You never thought you would ever be this kind of person, either.

The one who would have searched for normalcy, for stability.

Who would have actually _craved_ for... _This._

But things have indeed changed a great deal ever since then.

And this...

This feels_ good._

_It feels..._

You glance at Piper once again in search of the most appropriate adjective, and this time, she flashes you the most awkward, utterly endearing, seductive attempt of a smirk that makes you burst out laughing.

It feels_ right._

As you resume your task of carefully chopping vegetables, while sneaking glances at your wife, allowing the lightness and familiarity of the moment to soothe the remnants of your troubled spirit, you keep thinking about the fact that your previous inability about picturing yourself in such setting might not have been the only thing you could have been wrong about.

But you know that it has less to do with the setting itself... and everything to do with Piper.

In sharing all of this with her.

And having the chance to _do it_.

**. . .**

Demons come at night.

When your guard is low.

When it has been further lowered by a nice, quiet evening spent in, with a home cooked meal and then with your head resting on your wife's lap, with her fingers slipping through your hair while she does some homework. Making you drowsy with that soporific-effect that her touch brings in its lightness and the delightful laziness of the movement.

This whole therapy thing - combined with the possible_ "expanding the household with a new, tiny addition"_ idea weighting above all of that pile - leaves you quite a bit exhausted. Both mentally and - consequently - even physically.

_"Baby?"_

It's such a soft whisper, so quiet and distant, that you barely hear it.

It reaches you as if you are immerged underwater.

And it's only when the hand that has been slipping through your hair rests on your jaw, gently stroking your cheek, that you realize how close you were from taking that final plunge. The feeling - the warmth of such touch - is a bit more real. It holds you back from crossing the line leading you into that other realm.

_"Mh?"_ You murmur, stirring a bit more awake at the sweet sound of Piper's chuckle when you, instinctively, lean into her touch, making this noise in the back of your throat that might as well be the content purr of a kitten getting petted. A sound - and a general display - that clearly amuses your lover to no end.

"We should get you to bed, sweetie."

Something in your chest doesn't fail to flutter at the tenderness of her tone and the use of that term of endearment. But you still groan, because you are _perfectly _comfortable _exactly_ where you are, and your weak "protest" does nothing if not elicit yet another soft, amused chuckle from Piper.

"Come on,_ sleepyhead_." She encourages you, playfully, Affectionately. And even though your eyes are still closed, you have no problem picturing the smile that is surely curling on her lips. You can hear it in her voice just as easily. Despite being half-asleep and torn in between two dimensions.

Somehow, you manage to blink your eyes open, and even though your glasses are sitting on the coffee table, they barely need to adjust to the soft lighting of the living room, glancing up and finding Piper, as expected, smiling at you. Looking _so deeply_ entertained by your sleepiness.

Her papers lay discarded in a neat pile on the coffee table but they still get your attention.

"You have more work?" You ask her, because... going to bed alone isn't particularly _appealing_ to you.

You would rather keep toeing that line here on the couch with her for a little longer instead.

But those concerns vanish as soon as you see Piper shaking her head.

"No, those are just some notes." She informs dismissingly. "I can review them in the morning." She assures you, playing with a strand of your hair.

It's... relieving.

And that's why when she suggests once more to go to bed, you don't protest or put any childish resistance.

**. . .**

You manage to get on your feet and stay awake long enough to brush your teeth before dragging yourself into the bedroom and slip into your side of the bed.

A foreign kind of tiredness clings onto your bones, making it harder to resist the overwhelming pull of sleep, especially after you burrow yourself under the covers and rest your head on the pillow.

The... _fears_ that usually keep you awake, that keep you wondering what you might find waiting for you in that vastly uncharted realm, is nowhere in sight. Which makes you appreciate even more the comforting feeling of Piper slipping into the bed and scooting closer. Feeling her curves embracing yours, her arms pulling you in and holding you against the front of her slender, lithe frame.

You surrender to sleep with the feeling of her lips brushing a kiss on the back of your shoulder.

...and you should have known better than allow yourself to let your guard down so soon. No matter how alluring the call for sleep has been.

Like the song hummed by a siren.

Enchanting and luring you to your doom.

Because even all of that comfort and safeness literally surrounding you, and the general assurance brought by the quite, pleasant, cozy evening, doesn't save you from the inevitable...

**. . .**

Sometimes you still _smell it._

_That stench._

The one of still water and gasoline and gunpowder, of blood and... _death._

It sticks in the back of your throat like poison. Churning and corroding at your insides like acid.

Sometimes you still _feel it._

The air hot and humid in your lungs.

The ache _throbbing_ from the fresh gash on the side of your head.

The feeling of blood drying on your skin. Sticking onto your hair.

The grinding bite of ropes around your wrists.

Sometimes you still _see it._

Kubra's twisted smile when you blink your eyes closed. His face showing among the crowd of passersby on a busy sidewalk. Down the line of a bar.

And sometimes you still _hear it._

His accented voice.

**. . .**

_"I have made a mistake going after you while you were in prison. I should have known that the best way to get to you was to take _her _instead."_

_He even smiles. The sick, vengeful son of a bitch._

_Your jaw twitches, tightening with the anger boiling within you, fueled by the adrenaline burning hot into your veins, coursing through your system and swirling with the fear and worry churning in your stomach._

_"Let_ her_ go." You hiss once again, fighting against vertigo, your blurred vision and the vicious pull of unconsciousness, tugging against your restraints like a caged animal._

_You are surprised that fear hasn't completely paralyzed you, although, it's not the first time that you (including Piper) find yourselves in this kind of situation._

_Of all the things... you would have never thought that you would have felt a dash of gratefulness for having been through that nightmare during the riot, because otherwise, you wouldn't know how to even try to get a hold on all the emotions rampaging within you right now._

_"You wanted_ me_," You remind him. Keeping him busy. Gaining time. Hoping that he'll not notice the way you are actually squirming free from the ropes that he has used to tied you down. "Now you have me. You don't need _her_ anymore."_

_He just_ used her. _As_ bait, for you.

_"Alex-"_

_Piper calls __for__ you, trying to get your attention from your left, where even she is tied up against one of the old, rusty steel support columns of the abandoned, wrecked warehouse._

_There is urgency in her voice, something in her tone that demands your attention._

_But you can't even meet her gaze right now. _

_Can't even acknowledge her._

_Because then what little resemblance of control you have gained in this grim, doomed situation would completely slip from you. Getting swallowed under the guilt for having put her in danger. For being the reason of her getting kidnapped by the vengeful maniac that is your former boss._

_And so you don't even look at her._

_You listen to Kubra's wicked, nefarious laugh instead._

_Because you attempt to "negotiate" and convince him to let Piper go seems to do nothing if not _amuse_ him._

_Your jaw twitches tighter. Your teeth grinding together._

_You are going to wipe off that smug, victorious, _evil_ grin from his face._

_...if you could only manage to_ reach _for that piece of broken glass that is lying on the floor behind your back and that your fingers have_ just_ brushed._

_"Oh, you are wrong, Alex." He says, clicking his tongue as if he were reprimanding an ignorant child. "You see, differently from you, _I_ learn my lessons."_

With that, he drops the now empty tank of gasoline at his feet and pulls out a gun.

The sight of it freezes you in place. Turning your blood into ice.

_"And because_ of you_ I have learned mine about witnesses."_

Time slows down when you stare down the barrel of the gun and see the darkness waiting for you at the end of it, and all the choices that have brought you here.

_A thousand of thoughts and emotions collide at once inside you. But they all spring from one thing- from _one person_ only. And from one sentiment above any others._

_And it's then that it all happens._

_Before failure can truly sink like the cold, rusty serrated blade that it is._

_The flash of movement that you first catch with the corner of your eye is as unexpected as it is disorienting. But your confusion is short-lived._

_Replaced by that anguishing pain that carves its way inside you when you see Piper, suddenly free from her restraints, springing to her feet and _sprinting _towards Kubra. Getting in the way between you and the gun in a desperate attempt to distract him._

_And she _does.

_And you already know that the awful sound of the gun going off, the image of her getting hit instead, seeing her falling in a puddle of blood, as well as that horrifying, sickening feeling of_ powerlessness,_ are going to haunt you for the rest of your life._

You barely hear your own anguished scream. Or how it scratches your throat raw.

_Just like you barely feel the way that sharp shard of glass digs into the flesh of your palm when you manage to finally reach for it and grasp it as tightly as you can - or the way the bones in your thumb dislocate from the joint, the way the ropes scrape and tear off the skin from around your wrists and hands when you_ pull _\- with all the strength you have and didn't know you possessed - at your restraints, bouncing on your feet and tackling all the two hundred pounds of Kubra to the ground in the blink of an eye._

_You don't know from where it comes all that strength._

_But there is something fierce and consuming and _brutal scorching_ you from the inside that swallows _any_ kind of physical pain._

_The red fog of rage and hatred is blinding you from anything that isn't the purpose of seeing him without a pulse._

_You know though, that it could have very easily been you the one who could have ended spilling blood from your jugular if it wasn't for the element of surprise brought by your unexpected liberation and the further confusion that comes from tackling him. Sending the gun flying several feet away at the violent impact._

_You don't hesitate._

_You just bring down your hand and Stab him with that sharp piece of glass right in his throat._

_And _nothing_ feels as _good_ as digging it deeper and seeing that gruesome jet of crimson. In hearing his gurgling, choking noises and seeing the shock on his face._

When you re-emerge from that thick, blinding red fog, it feels a mystery how all of that just happened. With you almost being barely conscious.

_It goes down so slowly at first, and then, in the moment you first saw Piper hit the ground, motionless, it has all rushed fast forward._

_One moment you are fighting what you believe must be your last battle with the man that made your life a living hell. And the next, he is twitching on the floor with his throat cut open, spilling every last drop of blood until he is... _Gone. _And you are still_ alive_ and tripping all over the floor of the abandoned warehouse, slippery with gasoline, to reach Piper, lying just a few steps away, curled up on her side._

_With that boiling venomous rage dissipating, the space is newly vacant for the desperation that quickly seizes you from the inside, so harsh and fierce that its hold threatens to choke you, but you still find a way to fight it just as fiercely as you just fought, because there is blood_ everywhere_, but Piper is, miraculously, _still breathing.

_And the first thing you say to her is _"You fucking _i__diot_!"

_You actually yell. Because why, _why _would she even _think_ to try and take him down like that after he pulled out_ a gun?

_And she, in response to your desperate outburst... she _just smiles_, faintly, through a pained grimace that wrecks your entire being._

Because _you know_ why.

_Because you would have done the same damn_ thing_ if only you got the chance to free yourself an instant earlier than she did. If you could have only reached for that damn piece of broken glass before she decided to play the hero._

_If only you would have looked at her earlier when she called you, with that note of urgency in her tone and saw that she had broken free from her restraints..._

"I've... b-been... told... that... I-I'm pretty good w-with my hands, too."_ She even quips- _flirts_\- the insufferable, idiotic, dork of a hero. That pained grimace on her lips shifting into the resemblance of a smirk that makes this whole situation even more unbelievable. And yet, in its absurdity, it still manages to tear an exasperated laugh from your lips. It's wet and chocked by the tears you haven't acknowledged until this very moment being the other cause of your blurred vision beside your nasty concussion._

_Your hands, bleeding and shaky, trace over her body, but you cannot asset the damage of the gunshot wound. Honestly, you don't even _want to_. And you are actually grateful that it is too dark in here and your vision is too blurred for you to even try._

_You don't want to know how serious it is. You don't even dare to judge the alarming amount of blood pouring out of her. You just... Follow that instinct that has you take off your shirt- your_ prison uniform_ (because it's not like you got the chance to do some shopping on the way) and press it down onto the spot against Piper's side as hard as you can to slow down the bleeding._

_Her scream of pain echoes all around, piercing the stillness of silence, erasing the smell of gasoline, the one of rusty metal mingling with blood, reaching deep within you and shattering your soul into fragments._

_And if that isn't enough, it tears you into even smaller pieces abandoning her side even for just the couple of seconds that it takes you to reach Kubra's corpse and search his pockets for a phone._

_There is blood all over your hands, they shake something awful, your thumb is bent at the most awkward and painful angle, and the phone is slippery in your grasp._

_The pain that flares in your sliced up palm and runs up your forearm when you try to articulate your fingers is excruciating enough that besides challenging your consciousness, it also makes you believe that you must have cut through some tendons. But even that isn't enough to prevent you from dialing those three fucking numbers and bring the phone to your ear, all while taking Piper's hand and pressing it along with yours against her wound._

_Her gaze doesn't wander away from you._

_As it hasn't since you have first reached her side._

_While you wait on the phone she looks at you with the amount of affection that you have seen on her face during your most intimate moments. Her eyes tracing every single feature of your face._

_It's been a while since you last saw each other. But right now, she is not looking at you the way she has done during your visitations._

_Right now, the way she is looking at you feels more like she is trying to piece together the most thorough picture of you._

...something that she will be able to hold onto until the very _last_-

When realization strikes, you deliberately press harder against the wound, Angrily. Tearing yet another howled shout of agony from her, but this time, despite the way it wrecks you hearing it, you feel no guilt.

You just fiercely lock your gaze with her pained one which is suddenly, reassuringly more present.

_"Don't you _dare_." You hiss at her._

_But the threat held in that _harsh,_ growled demand gets swallowed into the desperate need that seeps in your voice, making it quiver._

_You don't dare to say anything _more,_ or do anything more explicit than wordlessly interlacing your fingers with hers and squeezing, feeling the pulses of blood pouring out of her, the warmth of it soaking the fabric of your shirt._

_She whimpers in pain, but tightens her jaw and clenches her teeth. She nods at you while inhaling a shaky deep breath. Squeezing your hand back just as an operator finally answers to you over the line._

_"911, what's your emergency?"_

**. . .**

Sometimes the whole episode gets triggered while you are fully awake.

The sound of an old car backfiring, or the faint smell of gasoline are more than enough.

Sometimes though you don't need a trigger. You just... space out and find yourself plunging right into it; some sort of awfully realistic flashback that leaves you sweating cold.

Although, more often, you relive the entire episode in the brutal form of a nightmare where you keep failing over and over again.

_"Alex..."_

A memory that wakes you up in the middle of the night with the same anguish and despair that you experienced during those terrifying moments.

And tonight, its grasp gets particularly awful.

The anguish that you feel is as real and paralyzing as you have lived it.

You don't know if maybe it's because the date of that fateful day is slowly approaching, but you know better than search for an explanation about that monster that pokes its head out from your subconscious and that keeps growing fatter with your fears.

_"Alex, baby, _wake up..."

Luckily, you are no longer alone whenever you go through it.

Not like you have been- _for months_ \- in your isolation cell before you got released.

Although... sometimes you would prefer it.

To not being seen by Piper _like this_.

Fragile.

Chipped.

Just...

_Broken._

But... You still welcome, with immense relief, the feeling of her arms wrapping around you and the sweet sound of her voice, which you follow like a thread. Letting it guide the way out of that nightmarish memory and into the wakeful world.

"It's okay, you are okay, Alex." Piper whispers in your ear, her voice so sweetly grounding in its softness. So deeply soothing. It brings you back into the present, away from that smell and that awful, loud, deafening bang that is still ringing in your ears. "You are safe." She assures, wrapping you that tiny bit tighter in her arms, cradling your head to her chest, uncaring of the cold sweat soaking your shirt.

But for how soothing her words and the sound of her voice are, it's only then that, as your breathing grows less agitated and anguished, calming and slowing down enough for you to be able to _hear it_.

The melody of her heart thrumming.

A loud and clear rhythm.

Spelling out each beat just beneath your ear.

It's the sweetest sound in the entire world.

"And I'm _here._" Piper says, reinforcing what the beating muscle in her chest is already confirming to you, spelling it for you with its steady cadence through the soft, warm layers of her skin.

Her voice and that sound, are the most comforting things to hear above anything else.

Those that finally persuade your own heart to slow down to an acceptable rhythm and allow you to focus also on her breathing, and on the deeply calming feeling of her fingers slipping through your hair in the most soothing and loving way.

"I'm sorry." You whisper, and it takes a great effort to push the words past the stubborn, tight knot stuck in your throat, not to mention to keep it from shaking with that same anguish that is still twisting your insides.

Piper however merely shushes you. Softly. Gently. But also with the firmness that makes it clear she wants to hear none of it. Dismissing entirely your apology. One taken from the long list that has no beginning or end.

She just pulls you closer to herself, dispelling the shivers of fear that have followed you into this dimension.

But for how good and comforting it is being wrapped in her arms like this, you still feel that itching,_ burning_ need to _do it_.

You can't fight it.

You just wait until the haze left by that nightmare starts lifting, enough to clear your mind from those images, enough for your heart to slow down a bit further from its frantic racing, and only then, when you manage to get that slightly firmer grasp on yourself you pull away from that safe spot on Piper's chest with a contrast of reluctance and eagerness.

Your hands shake with trepidation when you reach for the hem of her shirt. But that demanding need burning inside you compels you to do it.

And Piper...

Piper just_ lets you_.

Reaching out and taking your hand in hers.

You hold onto it like an anchor and take comfort from her silent understanding as you make your way down her torso and search for the proof that you are no longer dreaming.

That this is the tangible reality you have fought so hard for.

And in this case, the proof that everything is good, is the ugly, yet beautiful scar settled on her left side, between her sixth and seventh rib.

You can see it clearly even in the partial darkness your bedroom is swallowed into.

It _shines_ in the weak shaft of moonlight seeping in through the windows.

Uneven and puckered.

You can feel the smoothness of it under the pad of your thumb when you caress it and... under your lips, when you lean in to kiss it.

Piper doesn't ask if you want to talk about it.

Maybe because she knows that the answer - much to her unexpressed frustration and your additional guilt - will be another _"no"_ or, at best, another _"not really"._

If there is one thing that all of your previous therapists (including Doctor Campbell) have agreed about, is that talking about it _would help_. But you have met such approach with skepticism. Because you fail to see _how _reliving the most anguishing moments of your life can be of help and make you heal.

_No._

Those thoughts and memories turned into nightmares are taunting you enough in your sleep.

And, besides... there is another thing that helps you a lot _more_ during these moments...

You glance up at Piper. And not even the dark of night is enough to prevent you from seeing the understanding in her eyes. It's so open. So plain. And authentic.

It has a way of making you feel slightly self-conscious and guilty.

You are aware that she would definitely prefer to talk about it. About all that is troubling you. She believes in bringing your fears out in the open where they can't escape. And your method, the one involving chocking them from the inside... isn't turning out to be such an outstanding plan.

You do know however that clinging into them to not risk affecting Piper, will most likely poison you.

Maybe that's what makes you seek for the warm embrace of your bodies intertwined, taking comfort in the most thorough and authentic and exhaustive way that always succeeds in quieting those demons.

And you start by kissing that tender spot. That scarred little circle.

It's... so small.

But it was almost enough _to_-

You kiss it again. Softly, yet pressing your lips more firmly against it. To banish that thought.

A soft, humming-like noise comes from above you as your lips continue their travel lower, skimming across Piper's lower belly.

In the moment you hook your fingers into the waistband of her shorts, she reaches down with her other hand, her fingers lacing through your hair, before resting on the back of your head and giving a gentle little tug.

_"Alex..."_

She even whispers your name to get your attention, and it's so soft and breathy that for a moment it brings you back to that night.

Another wave of fear comes along, roiling in your stomach and threatening to drag you back into that warehouse.

But Piper doesn't allow it.

"Alex..." She repeats, slightly more firmly but still so very softly. "Baby, look at me."

She cups your cheek, giving you no choice but obey when she urges you to lift your head and meet her gaze.

There is no escape then.

No way to mask the tears that have been welling up in your eyes.

"Oh, sweetie..." And no way to avoid that heartbroken look on Piper's face when she sees them.

The way her features contort. That tone in her voice...

You get overwhelmed by the need to look away. But... you _don't_.

There is no point in shielding your vulnerabilities from her like this. You may still be a mess but, you have made _some_ progress in the matter during the past couple of months at least. And you actually _need her_ to see you like this. For it conveys so much more strongly what you are asking of her with your next plea.

"Please..."

It's a _"Please, let me touch you."_

_"Please, let me feel you."_

Your fingertips tingle from where they are hooked onto the waistband of her shorts and underwear.

Refraining from taking off those useless layers that are keeping you from that skin-to-skin contact that you are craving and that _that something_ primal in you _demands_, is tremendously hard.

But the way she grants you such request by urging you up and pulling you into a kiss, makes the wait worthy.

Just as you tug at her bottom shorts and underwear, she lifts her hips, allowing you to undress her, while her hands find their own way under your shirt, stroking your sides and urging you closer.

Beside her embrace and that safe spot where you find refuge in the crook of her neck, getting lost in her scent and the steady thrum of her heartbeat against her throat, the cradle between her legs is the other place where you find that same comfort and where you feel just as safe and welcomed.

The familiarity with which your bodies mold against the other in this position, and the way Piper's hands trace your sides, pulling away from the kiss only to free you from your shirt, it is almost enough to make you forget about what brought you to search for this kind of reassurance.

Well..._ almost._

And you get reminded about the circumstances when your hand skids up the inside of her thigh and settles between her legs.

The warmth of her core welcomes you even though she might not be just as... Ready, as she usually is when you get... _Intimate_. Which is understandable given the kind of sentiments behind all of _this_.

But you are still beyond delighted to find out that, even during these less than ideal circumstances and most unexpected moments, all it takes for Piper's body to respond to you is just a first exploratory touch.

The kind of damage you have ended up inflicting on yourself by grasping tightly in your fist that sharp shard of glass, has left you with... a considerable _lack_ of what was your previous dexterity.

But the self-consciousness elicited in you by your no-longer-so-smooth touch gets wiped away and replaced by the burst of confidence that swells within you when you feel Piper shuddering apart under your hand in the way she has_ always_ done.

With a brush of your fingers, Piper's lithe frame positively _melts_ beneath you. Her body blossoms open _for you_. Welcoming your exploring fingertips with that rewarding gush of slick warmth.

It's more than enough.

It provides the just amount of moisture that you need to feel the little bundle of nerves nestled between her folds grow harder under the tip of your first and middle finger, to hear the change in her breathing, to feel her temperature rise, her skin grow hotter with desire.

This, is what _helps you_.

Not writing notes on a diary about your nightmares.

Feeling Piper _like this_, getting lost in the familiarity of the act, brushing your lips against every inch of her skin, writing your own poem of infinite affection and adoration and _gratefulness_ on each curve and dip of her body, feeling her nails dig into your shoulder blades, hearing those beautiful, breathy, soft sighs slipping past her lips and brushing hot and humid against your ear when you slip inside of her and start moving, listening to the way they turn into those exquisite, shuddered moans whenever you curl your fingertips over that particular _spot _that makes her cant her hips forward and onto you as an encouragement to go deeper, to take her harder.

And so you _do._

As soon as you feel that she is ready for _more._

Listening to what her body confesses to you, unabashed.

A whole new overwhelming pang of pleasure assault your senses when, in response, Piper hisses a breathless, approving_ "yes" _in your ear. And if that isn't confirmation enough that she is definitely approving of this new, harsher, purposeful rhythm, the way she clings onto you and searches your lips and_ kisses_ you, with such fervor (in that way that makes you believe she might actually be taking her own comfort from this- the kind that _you _were seeking) says the rest.

However... For how gratifying and consuming it is... there is still that part of your that simply needs to lean back, to pull away (reluctantly) from that kiss, and meet her gaze.

You watch, mesmerized, as the blue in her eyes change into _that deeper,_ darker shade that tells you that yes... she wants this just as badly as you do.

She enjoys it like this.

The harsh pleasure mingled with some pain.

She wants this to _sting_, just a little, as a confirmation that pleasure is not all there is to this.

Because that light, enjoyable sting of pain - which you still make sure (even in your current conditions, driven with desire and a bit of that desperation that has followed you from that nightmare) doesn't border into actual discomfort... It makes things _much _more real. Convincing you that all of this is authentic.

And so, you thrust harder and make love to her while fucking away the remnants of a nightmare you are starting to believe you'll have for the rest of your life.

Nothing can compare with taking comfort from each other like this. And the primal instinct that drives you to do it, renders it infinitely more honest.

For you, it might as well be actually healing.

But... You know it works as nothing more than a band-aid to cover up what is truly festering you from the inside.

It doesn't make the feeling of Piper's hand sneaking under the waistband of your shorts and cupping your sex any less magnificent that it is though. And when you hear the moan rumbling in the back of her throat accompanied by that_ shiver_ that makes her quiver beneath you in the moment she feels the slickness she is welcomed with, and when her fingers actually start drawing circles around you, that thought about how _"deceptively healing"_ this is, gets erased by the first shock of pleasure that lights up all your senses.

The pace that she sets, the purposeful pressure that she applies... It says _everything_ about her need to drag you to her height and keep you there with her.

But you aren't that far behind.

And when her hips start rolling upwards with their own volition, trying to take you deeper - and her moans increase to the point of forcing her to break the kiss in order to breathe, you have already reached her.

You delight in the pleasure that you are able to draw out of her with each single shudder as much as you revel in the one that Piper brings you.

You grind against her palm a couple of times, while curling your own fingers inside of her and against _that spot_ on her front wall and...

It doesn't take much more than that.

There is nothing more glorious than feeling her body go rigid in _that way_, in feeling it arching against yours.

It's probably what pushes you over the edge as well.

And the relief that comes when you both reach that peak,_ together,_ clinging onto each other as you plummet down, is what makes you believe that everything is right again. Something that goes far beyond the physicality of the act itself, but that you could have only reached in _this way_.

The tumult of those emotions that had managed to get a grasp of you earlier, choking you from the inside with that knot tightening in your throat, has now loosened up enough to allow you to breathe. The accusing, judging whispers murmuring from your subconscious have now turned into an almost ignorable murmur under the buzz of the orgasm sizzling sparks of electricity through your body.

Nothing can make you feel whole again as coming apart under Piper's touch.

You may be broken. But in these moments, as you lay gently on top of her, breathing in the scent of her skin as you recover, you feel so whole to the point where you don't even know where you end and where Piper begins.

Maybe it's the soft cadence of her heartbeat spelling the reassurance that it delivers with its steady thrum.

Or maybe it is the deep comfort clinging onto your from having just thoroughly proved that you are no longer _there_. That Piper is_ safe._

But afterward... When that hand withdraws and rests on the small of your back, hot and slick with your arousal, when you recover and, panting for air, find refuge once more on either Piper's chest or the crook of her neck- _anywhere_ you can hear _and feel_ that comforting sound of her heartbeat thrumming under her skin, you find yourself fighting off the pull of sleep that inevitably comes along.

Too afraid.

Even with Piper there, encouraging you to by stroking your hair using that same soporific motion, and making it impossible for you to resist.

You fight it until the very last moment.

It's pointless.

And, eventually, the dream resumes.

Although... it doesn't really _feel_ like a dream this time around.

_Not really..._

There is that unmistakable haze surrounding you, but the fact that you can still hear and distinguish the sound of traffic coming from the street below your apartment, it makes you believe that you might be balancing in between the wakeful world and that memory. A suspicious confirmed by the fact that, this time, under the anguish that makes its way back into your bones, there is..._ something else._

Something that makes such anguish somehow less marked. Even that paralyzing fear that usually seizes you up from the inside is less crippling. But you _are_ back _there_.

The smell fills your nostrils and sticks in the back of your throat.

And when you look down, Piper is there, _bleeding _all over the floor. Your hands tinged crimson, letting go of the phone that clatters on the ground and splashes in the pool of gasoline you are kneeled into.

_...The line is still open, but you have to put pressure on the wound and try to slow down the bleeding._

**. . .**

_Two Minutes._

_Two minutes is like a lifetime in hell however when the woman you love is dying and it's_ all your fault_ and there is _nothing_ you can do to amend it; the result of _all_ your mistakes._

_The weight of guilt and powerlessness pressing down onto you is crushing, paralyzing, but you manage to crawl out from its wicked, shackling grasp when you see Piper's eyelids starting to drop. The hand intertwined with yours... _losing strength.

_"No... no no no no!" You chant over and over._

_You can _feel it.

_When the stopwatch in your head hits the first minute._

_You can _see it.

_The way she struggles with consciousness is obvious enough. But the way her pulse is actually _weakening_ under your blood-soaked hands..._

_She is... _slipping.

_No._

She can't.

_Anger flares inside you, fiercely burning through that crippling fear that is making you shake from the inside._

_"You don't get to this to me again!" You yell at her._

_Furious. _

Outraged.

_Because she simply _can't.

_"You don't get to _leave me_ for a third time, you selfish asshole!"_

_Maybe it's the offense, or the accusation itself what manages to stir her awake, to give her enough strength to blink her eyes open._

_Or maybe... Maybe it is what you say after that..._

_"You promised me forever, remember?"_

_Forty-five seconds._

_And if it wasn't for the desperation rendering you deaf from anything other than your own frantic, erratic heartbeat and the sound of your own voice cracking with despair, you would probably even hear the earsplitting noise of the approaching sirens._

_"You promised me a life together..." You remind her, speaking past the choking knot swelling in your throat, looking at her through the blurriness of the tears filling your eyes._

_"The whole boring suburbs deal."_

_Thirty seconds._

_And Piper stirs some more. _

_Those blue eyes flutter a little more open and they also Stay open. Blinking at you, bleary, yet with a surprising, unexpected clarity at the same time. Even her breathing itches. _

_"A house, kids..."_

_They widen that tiny bit and... her lips twitch into a smile that for how faint and pained actually manages to bring that spark of life back into those fading blue pools, making them ripple like a lake caressed by a spring breeze._

"You... want kids?"

_Even her voice sounds firmer when she speaks and asks you such question._

_And with the hope that bursts inside of you upon seeing her fighting off the pull of unconsciousness threatening to drag her away from your reach, you can only answer to her with the only vulnerable, fragile truth that lives within you "We- I can't have our family without you, Piper."_

_You squeeze her hand, the one that is resting into your own against her wound, now soaked with the blood pouring out of her._

_Ten seconds._

"Please..." You _beg_ her_._ "Don't leave me."

_There is a spike in her heartbeat. A look in her eyes you can only interpret as a resolution to keep_ that promise_ with that same purpose she has vowed to you in the cramped little space of an improvised bunker._

_And that's what you cling onto, too, as paramedics and police storm into the warehouse and tear her away from you._

**. . .**

A single, hot tear slides over the bridge of your nose when you blink your eyes open.

It's still night.

And the play of light and shadows in the bedroom haven't changed in the slightest.

If you have fallen asleep, it can't have been for longer than a handful of minutes.

But your throat feels as raw and tender, tightened with that uncomfortable knot, as if you have actually been crying for hours.

Piper is still lying beside you in the same position.

Still sleeping.

Her breathing, as always, is the first thing you focus on.

So comfortingly even and calm.

And then there is her heartbeat.

Thrumming just as steadily under the fingertips of the hand that you are still resting on her chest.

And maybe that's why you haven't been assaulted by that same crippling anguish that you felt seizing you from the inside earlier. But that doesn't mean that this second half of your dream- that _reliving_ that part of _that memory_ hasn't affected you just as strongly.

Your other hand feels numb. Those same three fingers have fallen asleep as it often happens when you end up in some awkward position that puts pressure on it.

You lift it from under your chest- carefully to not disturb Piper's sleep - stimulating the circulation again by bringing it up and wiping at the wet trail left by that tear.

It keeps bouncing in your head.

The echo of that conversation you had with her before you had to be separated one more time.

You have spent so much time, alone, first restrained on a hospital bed with no news, then in an isolation cell, and _then_ in a FBI safehouse god-knows-where, under a different name ("for your protection" -_ such a joke_) thinking that that one was the last conversation you had with her.

And... You _still_ wonder if she remembers that conversation at all.

She was _barely_ conscious.

And yet she clung onto your words - into that promise of forever that she has made to _you_ \- like a lifeline.

You inevitably wonder if maybe that's what has made her bring up the subject lately, now that things are more... _stable_.

Sort of.

She is the one who nearly died and you are the one who is fucked up by PTSD and all the regrets of what you could have done to avoid getting her in such danger and almost killed.

You glance up at her and you also wonder if her sleep is as peaceful as it looks. Or if even she is silently battling with her subconscious, with regrets- even though, as she said to you-_ smiling,_ the last thing she regrets is trying to play the hero. Trying to save _you_ when she has been haunted by that same awfully sickening feeling of powerlessness ever since _that_ other time you got kidnapped by a psychopath and _she_, was the one who had _to watch_.

The blood flowing back into your hand tears you back from the past. The resulting sting, taunts you and redirects your thoughts with its prickling, needle-like feeling.

A tingling sensation laced with the stiffness and consequent pain that you have become far too accustomed to experience whenever you open it.

The scar is visible even in the dark, with just the moonlight seeping through the window to provide a weak illumination; a light that is as much complimentary on Piper's curves and features and complexion, as it is unflattering for that scar on your palm, making it look even more rugged and_ uglier_ than it is.

It runs right through your head and heart line and - ironically enough (so much that you can never not scoff at the possible meaning that it holds) - getting it has also somehow managed to deepen and_ stretch_ the lifeline.

Ending Kubra's has_ surely_ lengthened yours though.

Bisecting it into two, or rather... _Three_ ramifications - If you also count that _tiny_ crease that forms there when you cup your hand _just so_.

It's... barely visible. But... it's _there_. Even if you don't dare to indulge in some possible, absurd..._ symbolism_ or whatever behind that scar that goes far beyond _how_ you got it.

Although... You have kind of always believed in fate.

Still, you push the thought aside, preventively. Because demons attack at night when you are vulnerable, and they _feast_ on _everything,_ on what might be an unspoke truth.

Maybe even an inarticulated and unexpressed... hope for normalcy, and... whatever _that_ might include.

Pushing those thoughts aside however doesn't render you immune to the implication behind your therapist's question and parting words, now echoing in your head even more clearly. Enhanced by the dream- the painful _memory_ you have just revisited. By that last conversation you had with Piper before they wheeled her away in a gurney and left you there with her blood mingling with yours and drying in your hands.

Angst starts roiling in your belly like acid, but before it starts churning at the rest of your insides and rise in your throat, you close your eyes and take a long, deep breath, resting your head once more on Piper's chest and letting the sweet, steady beats of her heart and the arms that instinctively wrap tighter around you, to dispell that awful feeling.

The cadence is like a spell. And combined with the warmth and safeness that you find in her embrace sometimes is enough to lull you to a blissfully dreamless sleep.

Tonight however, considering all the things that have been brought up in your sessions, and all the... contrasting feelings that have been stirred inside you lately because of this... new subject that has emerged, you doubt that you'll be granted such a rare luxury.

_"You promised me forever, remember?"_

To prove you that your thoughts are just as relentless as they have been this afternoon, that conversation plays once more in your head, and you just... let it.

_"A house, kids... The whole deal in the boring suburbs."_

That look on Piper's face, the way her eyes had widened, the feeling of her pulse spiking under your hands...

_"... you... want kids?"_

The way she had fought off the overwhelming pull of unconsciousness threatening to drag her into shock for blood loss when you told her those things, the way she has clung into what you told her next...

_"I can't have our family without you, Piper."_

And it's the honesty in such response that makes you realize, after _months_, that you wouldn't have said those things to her if you actually _didn't_ mean them.

Maybe... Maybe you _do_.

It's just then that you realize it.

When you rest your head back down on her chest, listening to the comforting lulling thrum of her heartbeat, with her hand unconsciously pulling you even closer to her in her sleep, and her other hand finding your disabled one, you realize that you didn't say those things to _just_ keep her awake.

To keep her _alive_.

To keep her_ with you._

Deep down... it's something you might want, too.

* * *

**I know... It wasn't rainbows and sunshine at all. But... don't fret. ****Also** **yes, I have been getting back to my beloved second person POV :) And since I find Alex and this specific "Vauseman having kids" topic a bit in collision since I (personally, despite her protective nature) don't really see her as the maternal type, I wanted to try and find out how she would live such situation while also struggling with PTSD and coming to a slow but unavoidable realization about how far her concept of family extends and what (or rather who) else it might include beside Piper. This is a new scenario for me too (besides a couple of one-shots in my "Specks of Dust" series) so getting Canon Vauseman into this could make the characters look a bit OOC I think. I don't know. For now, I'm trying to get Alex **_**there, **_**to Piper's same page, all in between dealing with her PTSD and all the struggles to re-adjust after prison and all the traumatic events they have been through, but **_**all **_**with Piper at her side :)**


	2. Chapter 2

Hi there!

I know, it's been a while, but as you have noticed the length of the chapter has required a bit more attention and time. I'm so, so happy that you have enjoyed the first chapter guys :) I'll admit that I was quite a bit nervous about posting it because, as I said, this is a completely new territory for me, and I'm still cautiously wandering through it while trying to be true to the characters, especially Alex's, given that I have deliberately chosen her POV to get into this specific topic.

Anyway, thank you for having been so patient in waiting for this update, and also thank you so much guys for the kindness you left in all your lovely comments :D

Now, I won't keep you any longer and just leave you to this second chapter :)

Enjoy

* * *

"I think we should try it."

Of all the ways you might have been considering bringing up the topic again, blurting it out at your breakfast table one morning, seemingly out of nowhere, with Piper gulping down her coffee, preparing to leave for school, and with you sitting there on one of the stools of the kitchen island still in your pajamas, is _not _how you intended to do it.

Even though you haven't discussed the subject again with your therapist (and she didn't bring it up either - which you don't know if it's something you should be grateful for or not) you have been considering it almost every day in the past week.

The thought has been there, pressing with a certain insistence after you have acknowledged your... hidden feelings regarding it.

You have been turning it over in your head and taken the time to think about the different perspectives. To examine it closely from every angle. Used logic over the fears that are still there, lurking behind the shadows of your frayed being, ready to ambush you, only this time, you have made sure to keep your guard up whenever some doubt started to creep in.

Piper - understandably so - tilts her head at you from where she is leaned against the kitchen counter, sipping her coffee, holding the cup with one hand while adjusting her blazer with the other.

Her eyes narrow before she blinks, puzzled.

"I'm sorry, what?"

It's... kind of cute, really.

That confused look.

You would probably even smile at that expression if it wasn't for the effort you are currently putting to not show the nervousness elicited by that spike of panic that has flared in the pit of your stomach upon blurting out such statement. Something you might be still giving away however given the way you fidget with your own coffee cup, picking at that chip on the handle.

You could backtrack.

You could pretend you didn't say anything or that you said something- _anything_ else. Divert the conversation to... whatever it is you were talking about.

For some reason though, it feels like you have just pushed yourself into a way-only route. And the more the silence stretches, the harder it becomes for you to mask the nervousness rising within you, or come up with an excuse of some kind.

There is no point anyway.

And so you search for some more of that... courage that has made you bring up the subject again, releasing a silent sigh and taking a moment to get a hold on your voice before looking up at her, pushing your shoulders back to summon even more confidence. Enough that you hope that such layer manages to mask your vulnerability when you rephrase your previous statement into a question instead and ask her,

"Your periodical gynecologist check-up... is still up for next week, right?"

You don't think that it might simply be the nature of the question itself what gives you away, or the way you keep fidgeting with the handle of your coffee cup.

It might be that little quiver in your voice, that tilt making it sound slightly - uncharacteristically - higher and... a bit nervous, despite the confidence that your stance and unwavering gaze may suggest.

All you know is that Piper's eyes, from narrowed ever so slightly with confusion, suddenly clear up. The crinkles between her eyebrows smooth out with instant realization.

"Alex..."

It's... You don't know exactly _what_ it is.

Your name falls from her lips like a sigh, but the way she looks at you renders it more similar to a way to dissuade you with an assurance.

And maybe it's exactly that tone, or the way her expression melts with understanding, or... the little spark of hope that inevitably lights up within her eyes, in a way she is completely unable to mask, and that speaks louder than anything she could say.

But it's all you have to see.

"No..."

That sparkle of hope that twinkles in her clear blue eyes and lights up her entire face for that split second is enough to push you to interrupt her before she can go any further. And it also may even grant you that bit more of firmness to explain yourself, fueling that flicker of bravery that has flared inside you and that has made you blurt out those words in the first place.

"I... I _mean it_, Piper."

And... the (un)surprising thing, is that _you do._

There is no lie there.

Just a truth you have been refusing to listen to for far too long.

Preferring to listen instead to those whispers telling you how unworthy and how poorly you would fit in such a crucially important role.

And in the moment you voice it out loud, that... _thing, _that you first acknowledged like a knot of nervousness that has swelled to double its size a minute ago, preventing you from breathing - instantly deflates.

And you instantly know, that what makes it collapse onto itself can't be anything other than the relief that blossoms at its place instead for having finally uttered such admission out loud.

If your voice has sounded nervous and shaky a few moments ago, this time it holds an unwavering firmness that can't be bent.

No matter how hard your heart might still be pounding with trepidation, leaping into your throat.

You even straighten up some more and lock your eyes with those blue gems staring back at you with understandable shock. Stilling your fidgety hands, getting a hold on your nerves with the next breath you draw in, even though there is no way of slowing down your erratic, frantic heartbeat, which is making your insides jolt and your fingertips pulse where they are pressed against the cold ceramic of the coffee cup nestled between your hands.

You watch as Piper sets her own aside and steps away from the counter, reaching the kitchen island and sliding into the stool next to yours, facing you.

When she reaches out to grasp one of your hands in hers, you can only let her, and take an infinite amount of comfort in the simplicity of the gesture.

And as your gaze gets brought downwards to see the naturalness with which her hand still slip into yours, you think about how much you love her hands.

They don't tend to fidget and nervously play with random things like yours tend to do, but even in their subtletly, they have always spoken so loudly to you.

As they do now, in all their gentleness.

Even that sting of numb pain that persists - day and night - in your right one seems to melt away and dissolve into nothing into the warmth of her touch.

But the instant comfort that you find there is still nothing compared to the look you are met with when you dare, tentatively, to glance from your joined hands and back up at her.

The soft smile that you find curling on her lips is already enough to make that muscle in your chest beat double time.

But when you actually meet her gaze and see the layer of moisture rippling in her eyes...

That knot settled behind your sternum tightens once again, rising up in your throat, cutting off your air supply as you get struck by the overwhelming need to look away.

Piper, however, doesn't allow you to. She promptly reaches out to stroke back your hair and cup your cheek, keeping you firmly yet gently in place when she senses that urge coming off you- that Need to shield your vulnerability from her. And before all that naked, raw understanding, your heart feels just as ready to evade from your ribcage as you have been forced to do from an high-security prison. Squeezing its way out from between your ribs.

It _throbs_. Painfully so. With the same fierce affection that you find staring right back at you into those rippling blue pools.

But also... It clenches with the new wave of fear that instantly follows.

With no other choice to do otherwise though, you hold her gaze, somehow even managing to do so without wavering when she conveys all of her honesty with the few words that she tells you next.

"I just want you to be okay, Alex."

She says it like it's her only wish.

As if she had found the magic lamp buried in the desert and out of three desires _that _is the one thing she wants above anything else in the entire world.

"I just want you to heal, as much as possible." She says, caressing your cheek and looking at you with so much affection that it _hurts_.

Her love has _always _hurt.

And right now, that pain, that sentiment, is pretty close to its fiercest.

"And not because you are broken..."

_Oh, I am,_ you think, instinctively. But the last thing you trust right now with that knot once again stuck in your throat, is your voice. So you don't say a word, don't even scoff as you usually would, afraid that it would come out as the chocked wet sob you know that self-deprecating laugh could turn into if you tried, and just let her speak instead.

"...but because _I need you_ to."

There would have been a time, up until a little more than three years ago or so, when you were both still in prison, where hearing Piper saying something like that would have made it sound as a statement - a demand, uttered out of pure selfishness.

You are no longer locked in that time, however. Even if you do still feel locked up, in a way.

You have matured, from that careless drug trafficker that you were, and into... whatever you are right now. And Piper... you have no idea if it was that near-death experience or what, but that distinctive trait of her behavior, that deeply rooted (although mostly unconscious) selfishness and self-involvement seem to have... _bled_ _out_ of her.

The most endearing sides of such trait are still there, and they show up on occasions, but now, whenever she speaks about what she needs, it includes _you_, as in _both _of you. As a couple.

As partners.

As... _Spouses, _that have taken vows and sworn to stick together no matter what.

Making those words that she just said to you sound more like an "I need you to feel good. I need you to be okay. So that we can live our life together and enjoy it like we deserve, after having fought so hard for it."

It's hard to find anything remotely selfish in there.

All you hear in her voice (not to mention what she doesn't have to say out loud), and all you can see in her eyes, is what you have both come to crave- to desire after having gone through such an ordeal together.

You understand it.

And she is _right_.

You _do_ need to heal.

But... you need _a purpose_, too.

Not just a job or the need to find your balance and place in a society you have never known how to fit into.

But something that will help you in moving forward from that thick, pit tar of guilt and regret and uselessness where you feel you are currently stuck into.

Something that would make you look forward. And not just because that's the only way you'll be able to outrun the demons chasing after you.

You divert your gaze, looking absently out the large living room's windows, listening to the raindrops tapping against the glass. Thinking that Piper is probably going to be late because this city turns into a nightmare with two drops of rain - and yet... she is s_till_ here. Uncaring of the bad weather, of her increasing possibilities of running late, of _anything_ else that isn't _you_.

She sure took her vows very seriously. And maybe this is also her way to make amend after not having been there for you during those few crucial times where you truly needed her to.

"I know..." You answer then. Taking the hand that she has rested on your cheek and interlacing your fingers together, squeezing it for good measure. Even managing a little, twitchy smile to help you convey a bit more strongly such reassurance as you continue.

"And... I know you said that I'm enough for you, _but_-"

"No." She immediately interrupts you, with such firmness despite having barely uttered that single word through the softest whisper.

"That's not true." She says, shaking her head while the smile dancing on her lips stretches a bit further and those blue eyes look at you as if you are not just enough, but...

_Everything._

It's hard, you think, reminding to yourself that you are actually still broken- a mass of shattered pieces that keeps stumbling to get back to its own feet, when Piper looks at you like she is doing right now, making you feel so... complete. Whole. Just with that soft smile reaching her sparkling blue eyes.

She still looks at you like you are the most beautiful thing in the world. The best that has happened to her.

And after all you have put her through... you still don't know how you came to be deserving of such look.

Even though you do know that the emotion behind it, is the same one that you show (even though less plainly) every time you look at her, too.

This... entire idea she's had and brought up recently...

It scares you.

You _are_ afraid of it.

But... if there is something that you have gotten the chance to understand about fears in general during the past few months, is that there is no better way than rendering their powers futile by facing them _directly_.

Especially when they are about something that you didn't know (at a conscious level at least) you might have been desiring all along.

Maybe... Despite what you told your therapist last week before you left her office, this could actually provide an answer to all of those points.

A possible answer.

_Not_ a solution.

You still don't see Piper's... request... as _an opportunity._

You _refuse_ to see it that way. To take the idea in consideration with _that_ motivation.

But you do understand what she means when she says that all she wants is for you to be okay. Because it matches your own desire about this trouble-free life you have so longed for, and (during the darkest times) never thought you would have been able to have.

You simply can't allow those fears to run you down like this. You have faced _so_ many of them already. You refuse to keep being hunted by the remnants left from those banished ghosts.

"Maybe..." You start, pausing only to get a firmer hold on your voice, briefly ducking your head and swallowing that stubborn tight knot that never fails to form there, like a spring coil, between your chest and throat every time you even just _think_ about this... topic and all the possibilities it holds, before continuing, lifting your head again and bravely meeting her gaze, taking comfort in the look you find on Piper's face. Equally patient and expectant. Adorned by that same glimmer of _hope_ shimmering at the horizon in that endless sea of blue.

"Maybe this could actually _help_..."

When Piper's eyebrows twitch once again into that hinted frown of mild confusion from before, you know you'll have to elaborate a bit further.

In an attempt to still the nerves that inevitably start fluttering once again in your belly, you draw in some air through your nose in a silent, yet deep inhale.

You aren't sure how you can voice this, how you can find the words to explain your inappropriateness as a possible parent without eliciting the kind of look you want to avoid seeing on your wife's face.

How you can make her understand the concerns that you have about how you could _ever_ explain the things that you have done that isn't with the whole "we do terrible, yet justifiable things for the people we love" clichè.

Doctor Campbell was right.

The prospect to talk about this _does_ make you feel a bit uncomfortable. Even if it is with Piper.

But... After a week spent rummaging the issue, your resolution has gotten strong enough to push past the nervousness swirling inside you. And the patient, understanding look sprinkled with that glittering hope that you find staring back at you under that tilt of confusion, grants you the kind of firmness that you need to just... tell her _how_ you feel about this.

"It's just that..." But you instantly cut yourself off again, only to sigh - groan, and squirm in frustration at the awkwardness that springs from having a conversation you have never got into before voluntarily. Not when you weren't desperate to keep Piper from slipping away from you like she almost did that night, at least.

"I'm just..." Another pause and your jaw twitches with rising anger as those unsaid words burn and itch and stick in your throat.

Exhaling a long breath through your nose does little to nothing to still your jittery nerves. There is no saying what will happen when you'll utter such confession out loud. In the open. Where it will become _more_ than a thought, and where it will no longer have a way to escape and be ignored by the reality you'll have thrown it into.

"_Alex_..."

But Piper is still _there._

Still patient.

Still waiting for you and-

Okay, so maybe you _do_ need a "little" push...

"Whatever it is," She says, erasing that spike of self-consciousness with all the comprehension that you probably don't even deserve; the kind you doubt she would have been able to feel and convey so strongly if it wasn't for the _hell _you had to go through.

"Just... just _say it_." She encourages you. And for how gentle her voice is, her gaze - despite the plea in it - still manages to hold a certain firmness in its vulnerability that prevents you from wavering or (even worse) backtracking as you might still feel the _desperate_ need to do.

You summon the rest of your courage, scraping it from the corner where it has found refuge in order to survive the vicious daily attack of your demonic fears, sucking in a deep breath, straighten your back and then...

_Fuck it._

Here goes nothing.

"I'm terrified that I'll mess everything up."

There.

Ultimately, it all leads back to the biggest fear of all.

Incredulously enough though (for you at least) the world doesn't fold onto itself and implodes.

The sky doesn't fall.

And - much to your dismay - nothing remotely catastrophic happens.

Not even a thunder takes the occasion to dramatically boom in the storm raging outside.

It's... quite the opposite actually.

The world keeps spinning.

And that same, odd sense of liberation that you have experienced that day a week or so ago in Doctor Campbell's office when you have confessed the same exact thing - returns, presenting as a much unexpected lightness that empties your chest from that invisible _crushing_ weight that you have been feeling settling onto your sternum, and its... removal, instantly allows you to breathe more easily.

Maybe it's not just bullshit then.

Maybe uttering a fear out loud _does_ take some of its shackling power away after all.

You might not have adorned such confession with that final, obvious "as I usually do" or rather, "as I have _always_ done" but those unsaid words flutter in the silence that follows nonetheless, flitting like a ghostly echo in between the insistent tapping of the rain against the windows.

It still doesn't prevent you from glancing up, tentatively, and seek Piper's gaze.

You have no idea what to expect. You have preferred not to think about it.

But then, you see _it_.

That layer of moisture in Piper's eyes thickens, making those pools of blue overflow into the smile that contrastingly tugs at her lips as she shakes her head at you.

"You wouldn't." She simply states, with a conviction and easiness that shake you to the very core.

"How can you say _that_?" You instantly ask, disbelieving.

How can she sound and look _so sure_ saying that when your track record is the least reassuring thing.

Piper, however, seems to look completely unconcerned, uncaring about what the past holds, promptly offering you the most compelling argument of all.

"Because..." She explains, scooting closer and looking at you with one of those smiles that makes your cracked, wounded, still recovering heart, throb even harder in the cavity of your chest. Impossibly so when you see and feel the way she traces the back of your hand (your broken, disabled hand) and turns it over, bringing it to her lips and planting a kiss right at the center of the ugly scar disfiguring it.

You almost withdraw it as if you got burned by a glowing red-hot brand.

The gesture is far too intimate, far too tender, and that hand is undeserving of such gentleness and love considering all the awful things you have used it for.

_Although..._

You have used it to _love her_, too.

To _protect_ her.

And suddenly, upon reaching that conclusion, that urge collapses on itself.

Because there is _so_ much meaning behind that gesture, behind _that smile_ alone, that she doesn't even have to say anything more to explain herself further, but she still does, because she wants to remind you that

"You wouldn't be alone to do it."

It's only then that you finally come to get it.

You actually can't believe that you have overlooked what might as well be the most important, _crucial_ aspect about all of this, and what a positive outcome would imply.

If you are going to do this, you are going to do it _together_.

"I would be there with you this time. Every step of the way." Piper assures you, gazing at you with that same firmness and affection that only she is able to convey in such manner and provide you the kind of comfort and certainty that has you believing that _this_ with such conditions, could actually _work_.

You grew up with only one parent.

Piper, despite having both... they haven't been much present either to teach her some of those values Doctor Campbell has cryptically mentioned to you last time.

Maybe... You _do_ stand a chance in not screwing everything up.

The amount of things that you have learned from each other over the years, both in the easy but especially in the hard way, everything you have been through together... it might have prepared you enough for this.

And maybe... Maybe this is something you will have to learn_ from her_.

Take example from the naturalness that she seems to embody in such role, rely on her when you feel unsure, and get over the fact that (for how much as you may want it in order to protect her) you can't handle _everything _on your own. Especially not since you have agreed to go through life, with all the beauty and pain it holds, as partners.

You have... _accepted _that. But it is clear (just like so many things seems to depend of these days) that it's still _you _the one who has to make the first step towards _that_ direction.

And that's why Piper is still there, waiting.

For _you_, to make that step.

The silence surrounding you is filled with nothing if not her patience, the sound of the rain tapping more softly, the one of thunders fading away in the distance and... that hope and reassurance shimmering in her eyes.

Guiding you through the tumultuous storm of the fears threatening to close around you and drag you back into that cold darkness that is its lair.

"So... uh," You hesitate, wobbling a bit as you fight against those shackles, equally eager and afraid as you try to make that first step, all while experiencing that foreign heat that scalds your face and neck, yet refusing to fall once again victim of its crippling effect.

"Can I... accompany you to your gynecologist appointment next week to hear a... uh... _professional_ consult?"

You don't mean to make it sounds like the most awkward invite to a date in history. But that's _exactly_ how that self-invitation comes out like when you manage to break free from that shackling fear and make your own voice collaborate.

And your uncharacteristically timid, fleeting gaze paired with that equally... atypic... tilt of nervousness in your voice, only serves to accentuates that kind of image.

You would probably even grimace and groan for sounding and looking so embarrassingly clumsy; for stumbling onto your own feet all over this... vastly uncharted territory like a three-legged moose.

...if it wasn't for the look that you are met with when - after an excruciatingly long pause - you _finally_ (bravely) decide to glance up at your wife.

The breath you have just sucked in to summon the courage to do just so, catches in your throat.

Because she is _smiling_.

But it's not as much the subtle tilt that you find curled on her lips as it is the _glint_ that you see shimmering all the brighter in her eyes and lighting up her entire face what makes your chest feel far too tight all of a sudden to contain the emotions that swell inside it.

It's a look that you have witnessed blazing to this fierce intensity only a couple of times before. During two of your most emotional and intimate moments. When you were surrounded by people, and yet it still felt like it was just you and her in the entire world.

In a way... It has always felt that way with her. At the risk of sounding disgustingly cheesy, you actually felt that way since you first _saw her._

And even this time, just like in those other two other occasions, the silence is broken by an ecstatic_ "yes"._

It slips past her lips as a breathy laugh; wet and choked up by the tears welling up into those endless blue eyes while a dimpled grin breaks through.

And just like that, whatever remnant of the weight that had been sitting on your chest in the past ten minutes, whatever doubt you had before you dared to get into this conversation, gets shredded and then completely _scorched_ into nothingness by the brightness of that smile.

You reach out to cup her jaw, bringing her closer while also leaning in, meeting her halfway for a kiss that she is beyond eager to return.

This time though, you don't kiss her to silence the fear that might still be there, hissing from within the most hidden and darkest corners of yourself, where it always manages to find refuge.

This time you kiss her to reassure her as she never fails to reassure you whenever you get upset or emotional.

It's the least you can do.

And the joy you are meet with into that kiss, and the wet, excited, ecstatic laugh that slips past her lips when you part, as well as the sight of _that smile_ that lights up her entire face, and in front of the tears that she no longer tries to hold back, you know that you couldn't have denied this to her.

She looks happy that you even just_ suggested_ the idea out of your own volition. But if you won't go through with this... It would still be enough for her that you voluntarily brought up the subject and the possibility.

Leaning into her certainty and assurance has made the decision so much simpler.

It's a small step.

But at least, you made it on your own.

**. . .**

And so that's how it starts.

With a few words uttered seemingly out of nowhere during a rainy morning at the breakfast table with you still in your pajamas and your wife ready to leave for work.

It is meaningful though - despite it not having been the most ideal moment - having brought it up like that. Because if you had decided to whisper those words in the dark instead, maybe during the afterglow of one of those "in-the-middle-of-the-night comfort sex" that you use to banish away the remnants of your nightmares, it wouldn't have held the same weight.

Despite the way you may have blurted out those words, the daylight, for how gray and feeble, has actually granted you the lucidity that such... _suggestion _needed to be properly concretized.

And things grow into something even more tangible the following week. At Piper's next, simple, periodical, gynecological exam.

**. . .**

Doctors' offices have a way to make you nervous.

Clinics in particular.

It must have something to do with that subtle smell of antiseptic that not even the lovely jasmine air freshener filling the waiting room can completely mask.

It reminds you of your own time spent in the hospital, when all you had to keep you company was the pain lacerating your hand and the despair twisting rebelliously inside you that not even the morphine could numb.

Even so, you manage to stay there, sitting quietly in the waiting room. Flipping through the pages of a medical magazine and reading about... fertility, new in vitro techniques that grant higher percentages of success in women over forty, STDS and... general tips on vaginal health, while your wife gets _hers _checked out.

It's not the kind of literature that is usually found in your possession (or the kind that you expected to capture your attention with such firmness, to be honest) but when Piper - after her examination - pokes her head out of the Doctor's office, she has to call your name more than a couple of times before you hear her, and when you finally do and your head snaps up, eyes blinking to adjust and regain some distance focus, you almost have this absurd urge to hide the magazine that has been holding your attention hostage for the past half an hour like a teenager would probably try to hide some porn after having been caught. An instinct that is simply... beyond _embarrassing _and bordering into humiliation.

And it may also be the reason that has Piper's lips stretch and curl into one of those unpracticed, deeply amused smirks.

"What?" You defend, grumbling, hastily shoving the magazine in the stack near the table you have picked it up from before approaching her.

She just shakes her head, stifles a chuckle and kisses your (flushed) cheek.

"Come on," She whispers then, taking your (suddenly sweaty) hand and pulling you inside the study where the doctor is waiting to speak to you both about... the reason that got you to tag along today.

**. . .**

"So, Piper told me you might be taking into consideration the possibility of expanding the household?"

Piper's gynecologist is the friendly, lighthearted kind of doctor who definitely has a way in making people feel at ease with just a smile.

Even so though, that smile doesn't exactly work in melting away _all _of your concerns and the nerves that have once again started twirling in your stomach.

Your lips part to provide an answer, but the words don't come out with your voice.

"We have been..." It's Piper the one who speaks. Her voice trailing off into a pause as she meets your gaze and takes your hand in hers under the desk when she sees- or rather _senses _that spike of nervousness coming off you.

"-_discussing_ the subject, yes," She concludes at last, weighing her words as carefully as you would have done if you had gotten your voice to collaborate, squeezing your hand and flashing you a reassuring smile when she feels the tension slowly starting to melt away from you under the soothing motion of her thumb over your knuckles, making your hand unclench.

"We were hoping to get some... _professional _advice and see which options would be available for us." She adds and the doctor, a nice middle-aged African-American woman, seems to be beyond _delighted_ to get into details.

"Of course," She answers, flashing the whitest, kindier smile on earth that would make _anyone _feel comfortable. It even works _with you_ as she gets into explaining what you both already know.

There isn't much that needs to be further discussed however than the pretty obvious "we are two women in need of a sperm donor."

The effort that it takes you _not _to pull a face at that bit... it has Piper smother another smirk of amusement that you catch out the corner of your eye.

"... I can forward your file to my colleague who is specialized in fertility," The doctor offers conclusively. "Her clinic is in this same building, a few floor upstairs, and since I understand that it would be you, Piper, the one who would have the honor to carry," The doctor rightfully assumes, "I would like to take a bit more of your time today since you are already here- if of course you can, and allow me to take a blood sample to run an AMH test and make an approximate estimation of your eggs reserve."

And just like that, it's _Piper _the one who, all of a sudden, from a bundle of bubbling excitement, stiffens up with a bit of apprehension.

"_O-oh._"

Okay. So maybe _more_ than _just_ a bit, actually.

Her entire frame tenses up and the hand resting in yours grows hot and fidgety with a kind of nervousness you know well even though she rarely displays it this way.

An unmistakable sign nonetheless that you don't wait for a second longer to soothe.

"It's okay," You tell her, tugging at her hand ever so slightly, just enough to get her attention.

Her gaze tears away from the doctor and those blue eyes lock with yours, finding what you already knew you would find laying and reflecting onto the surface of those endless pools. Meeting that look of doubt and slight worry with an encouraging smile.

"They probably have every woman take the test before going..._ any further_."

"We do." The doctor helpfully chides in, standing up, files in hand, flashing one of those profoundly reassuring and extremely kind smiles. "And since everything else appears to be perfectly in order," She adds, flipping through the results of Piper's last pelvic exam from this afternoon. "This really would be just procedure." She assures.

Maybe it's your encouragement, or maybe it is having your assumption confirmed by the doctor herself.

Whatever it is, you are just glad to see Piper's frame relax once more with the next silent exhale that she releases, silently, slowly, through her nose.

"Okay," Her answer may be addressed to the doctor, but she smiles_ at you,_ gratefully.

She still hesitates though as she stands up. Faltering in her steps before stopping altogether when the doctor opens a door adjacent to the office and leading to what you assume must be the examination room.

"How long will it..." She starts asking only to pause, backtrack and trying (unsuccessfully) to rephrase her question without that spike of anxiety that has her briefly glance back at you in search of... more reassurance.

"When are we going to know _if_..." She swallows, hard, seeming unable to bring herself to say the words.

The nervousness emanating off her is source of that kind of endearment that has your heart flip in your chest.

But... the fear seizing her voice makes your stomach twist on itself.

She is hopeful.

Excited.

And, inevitably so, _afraid _about these new tests she needs to do and the results that they might reveal.

She doesn't have to complete her question though since the doctor has already understood what she intends to ask.

"Early next week we'll know everything we need." She promises, professionally and just as reassuring as she seems to be with such naturalness and that easy smile.

"In fact, after we are done drawing some blood, I can already schedule an appointment for you with my colleague at the fertility clinic upstairs."

Luckily, that seems to be enough to soothe Piper's jittery nerves and melt some of that tension that has stiffened her back. Even though you feel a bit... useless, for not having been able to provide her some tangible certainty like she never fails to do with you whenever you are upset or worried or... _terrified_ after having been woken up in the middle of the night by yet another vivid nightmare.

And that feeling persists, swelling into something much more uncomfortable and invading when all you can do is just... watch and flash her one last twitchy smile before the doctor leads her out of the office. Leaving you there, fighting against that claustrophobic sense of helplessness that fills you up from the inside and challenges the kind of balance you have managed to find during the past few days.

**. . .**

Usually, _generally_, people never look forward to doctor's appointments.

If anything it is considered a highly dreaded destination.

You may be getting used to your sessions with Doctor Campbell, but it doesn't mean that you actually _enjoy_ attending them. Although, you have to admit, that going to those appointments twice a week doesn't have you as reluctant as you were when you had been assigned to your previous, incompetent, uncaring therapists.

Either way, that's not the case for Piper though. Who waits for the following week as _eagerly_ as a kid waits for the summer break.

It's impossible to not find that bit of anxiety kind of endearing actually.

So much that her visibly bubbling excitement might have you struggle to hold back a smile whenever you catch sign of it breaking the surface of that facade of normalcy.

The day of the appointment, however, such excitement turns into jittery nerves that has her first reprimanding you for not doing the dishes right, and then also forget the folder with all of her previous exams that the doctor has asked her to bring along this afternoon.

She leaves for school in the morning without it, but that's not a problem since you already had the intention to pick her up before going to the clinic, directly- _together_, instead of just meeting her there.

It's not like you have such a _busy_ schedule you struggle to keep up with, after all.

And walking all the way to Piper's school might actually help in settling down your own nervousness about this appointment and all that it implies. Because even though your... fears regarding the subject might have diminished after your _talk_ with Piper, the doubts still linger, fluttering relentlessly around you.

Although, unexpectedly so, some of those get quieted down when you arrive at Piper's school, and find her.

Since she doesn't have an entire class of her own but just a dozen of kids that she assists in separate sessons, the only place where she can help her students without being disturbed, is in the library.

And that's exactly where you find her; tucked away in a corner by one of the windows, surrounded by books, with a kid. A young boy that can't be older than twelve.

And who also seems to have great difficulties in reading.

The carpet absorbs the sound of your steps and neither Piper or the kid (not even the library clerk actually) hear or see you, and you take advantage of your undetected presence to step even further out of sight but still finding a position that manages to offer you a perfect view of the scene, close enough for you to hear and instantly understand what the... issue with this kid is.

The thick Spanish accent gives away his disadvantage with the language. But there is also the stuttering and some other kind of speech disfluency to interfere whenever he speaks.

He struggles to finish one sentence or even read one line from the book opened in front of him.

His leg bounces nervously under the table, and when such nerves get even more in the way of his voice, Piper gently stops him.

He is embarrassed, frustrated. And she doesn't wait a moment longer to reassure him.

"It's okay," She says, laying a gentle comforting hand on his arm and flashing him the kindest, most understanding, _easiest_ smile. "Just take a breath." She suggests, waiting until the boy, after a moment of hesitation, takes the advice, inhaling a deep breath and releasing it, along with some of the tension that was holding his little frame hostage.

"That's good," Piper praises him. "Now, let's start over and remember: there is no one else here," She reminds him in an attempt to put him more at ease. "And there is no need to rush to the end. So take your time, and try to spell out each word, okay?"

It's surely something in her voice. In her calming, comforting tone. In the patience held in her words. All accentuated by the reassuring smile curling on her lips.

The boy - positively affected and reassured by the entire no-pressure approach - nods somehow timidly before straightening up with purpose.

In the following minute, as you lean against the wall and watch the scene with your arms folded across your chest, you also find yourself smiling (smirking actually, very subtly) at your wife's incredibly persuasive skills, because even though the boy really - _literally_ \- takes Piper's advice and does take his time, he manages to reach the end of the paragraph by speaking clearly, without stumbling over words or stuttering in the slightest.

He looks incredulous, and you almost give away your position when you get forced to stifle in the back of your throat the chuckle that swells in your chest in the moment you see the proud grin stretching across his face.

"That was great, Sebastian!" The praise that Piper offers him along with her own proud, dimpled grin, is well earned.

The poor kid might even _blush_ a little.

And... You don't know what is it that makes your heart do that _thing_ that it does in your chest. If it is the sight of that smile lighting up Piper's face or...

Or witnessing this entire scene.

In seeing, with your own eyes, how natural she acts around kids.

And thinking, for a fleeting moment, that... you could even get used to seeing such scene playing before you every day. At... _your home_...

"You see? All you need is a little time, and some practice to get familiar with the new terms."

It's... _ironic_ \- to say the very least - how those are the words that tear you back from your thoughts and the direction they have lead you to, and how such advice actually happens to flawlessly fill some of those doubts you still have about this... long-discussed subject.

"Even when you are in class, pretend you are alone in your room reading comics," Piper suggests flashing him the kind of smile that has the poor kid blush some more and duck his head in an attempt to hide it as any pre-teenager would probably do. Especially so if it happens to be in front of an attractive teacher who has as much of an irresistible smile as Piper has...

You fall prey of it almost _every day._ So you kinda feel for the boy.

Your wife, however - adorably so - seems to be _completely _oblivious to the kind of effect that she is having on the kid.

You wait and observe the scene for a couple of more minutes, until the last period bell outside the library rings and Piper dismisses her student, who - unsurprisingly - seems to be a bit reluctant to leave now that he was getting more confident with reading at his own pace.

It's highly entertaining.

As it is seeing him gathering his things and scurrying away with that timid smile dashed with that persisting blush after having mumbled a heavily accented, although sincerely grateful "thank you" and a very polite "goodbye, Miss Chapman."

_Strangely enough,_ he _doesn't _stutter over the name.

Such a_ coincidence..._

"Smart kid," You comment when the doors of the library close behind him, finally stepping out from the shadow you have slipped onto.

When Piper spots you she almost does a double take, her head snaps up from where she was fiddling with her briefcase at the sound of your voice, her eyes widen, and then her entire face lights up with one of those smiles that make your heart do all kinds of acrobatics within your chest.

"You know," You tell her when she rounds the table and approaches you. "I think he might be just _pretending_ to stutter, so he can get to spend some alone-time with you, _Miss Chapman_." It's how you greet her, and despite the little smirk that is there curling up the corner of your mouth, and the little remark on the name, you aren't _entirely_ teasing her.

But Piper, of course, still totally oblivious, simply rolls her eyes, dismissing your implications with a simple "He is _eleven,_ Alex," And what is truly concerning about it, is that she says it as if no eleven-year-old on the planet has _ever_ gotten a crush on a teacher before. But you decide not to tell her that. ...Or to confess about how you so totally _didn't_ have a crush on your freckled, redhead, history teacher for the entire middle school.

"But you are right," She agrees, the flash of the proud smile on her face tearing you back from those very few pleasant memories of your youth at school.

"He _is _a smart kid. Just moved here with his family from Honduras. And he's not a stutterer." She informs you, a bit defensively. "He just feels very self-conscious about his accent and grammar, which brings him to misspell some words, and it doesn't help that the other kids in his class tease him for it whenever he gets asked to read out loud."

There is a flicker of that temper you like so much (and that can be _so damn_ attractive in some specific circumstances) seeping into her voice when she tells you so, laced with a bit of protectiveness and the same compassion that you might experience upon receiving such information. Because you _know_ how it was- how it _felt_ getting teased by mean kids over things you had no control over...

"Not that I'm not happy to see you, _honey,_" That term of endearment laced in a familiar thread of playfulness gets all of your attention back, narrowing your eyes in an equally teasing little glare that only succeeds in widening further Piper's smile. "But what are you doing here?" She asks as you pull her into one of the aisles, answering to her question by wordlessly holding up the folder of medical tests that she forgot this morning when she left.

"You could have brought them to the clinic," She points out, but she actually looks relieved at the sight of the papers, not to mention that she is still smiling. A smile that shifts into a smirk and that might even succeed in the impossible task of bringing that light tinge of pink on your cheeks when she also points out that "It seems like you are enjoying throwing me these kinds of surprises lately."

You can't debate on that.

It's something new for you too.

It's... helpful getting to do something, to make yourself useful. Not to mention that you are _definitely_ enjoying seeing the way she reacts to these so-called"surprises".

And just because you don't like to disappoint, you take advantage of the moment by pulling her closer to you and drawing her into a kiss that - in between the aisles of a library with nothing but stale air and silence surrounding you - tastes like a deja vu.

The sweetness that you find on Piper's lips - and the warmth that welcomes you when (after the initial moment of surprise that makes her gasp) she instinctively parts them - takes away the sour aftertaste from that particular memory where many, different, contrasting feelings were battling for supremacy within you.

It escalates, but this time you doubt you'll have the chance to pin her to the floor like_ that time_.

For how tempting the idea of indulging into this in an innocent way (or as innocent as this kind of things can remain between you two) you have... an important appointment to keep. And so, with extreme reluctance, you pull back, or at least you _try _to. Chuckling when Piper whines in protest and pulls you closer to herself by tugging at the collar of your jacket in that firm, purposeful way that has your body _react_ in a very_ specific_ way.

"We should probably stop while we still c_an_," You breathe hotly against her lips. _Or before someone sees us,_ you also add inwardly. Resisting with all your might that _pull_, knowing what will happen if you'll give in. Public setting_ or not_.

It's not like it has _ever_ stopped you before, and the fact that there seems to be no one around anymore, only renders the idea oh so _dangerously _appealing...

Before you can even get the chance to press Piper a bit more firmly against the shelves you are leaned onto, however, and before you deepen the kiss a bit more - yet when you were already coming to terms with this possibly taking the kind of turn that a part of you might have been getting ready for, Piper pulls back.

It's so sudden that, at first, you even worry there might be something wrong. Like _someone_ might have actually caught you making out like two horny teenagers.

But in the moment your eyes snap open, you get assured that nothing is wrong (or that, at least, luckily, no one seems to have caught you) but you also grow very confused when you just see Piper there, smirking at you.

"You are right," She says, withdrawing the hand that has _somehow_ managed to find its way _under_ your shirt and rest - surprisingly innocently - on your hip.

"We should stop." She agrees. "I wouldn't want to be late to our appointment."

And _oh_...

You would maybe even believe that she was actually, one hundred percent serious and not just using your appointment as a (reasonable) excuse to see the look that darkens your eyes and has you smother a growl in the back of your throat.

She just smiles wider.

All these years and she_ still _likes to play with fire...

For now though, there isn't much you can do.

But when you warn her that she is better save all the interests for later tonight, her eyes sparkle with mischief.

"We'll see." She answers, teasingly, and so damn promising, planting a kiss on the corner of your mouth before taking your hand and dragging you out of the library.

**. . .**

Despite the... uncomfortable sensation settled deep in your belly that Piper's wicked little game has left you in company with, you feel... surprisingly _calm_ as you walk towards the clinic.

Maybe it's because of the brief make-out session you had tucked away in the library that has managed to both take away some tension from your back and push it deeper down into your lower belly.

But you don't dwell much on which the reason or reason_s _standing at the base of such an unexpected calmness might be.

You just... welcome it. Along with the positiveness that inevitably springs from it and that combined with the echo of Piper's reassuring words from a week ago after your unplanned speech at the breakfast table (not to mention the even more comforting feeling of her hand slipping into yours to keep you grounded, or the smiles that she flashes you along the way) makes you believe that everything is going to be okay.

...a kind of naivety for which you'll soon reprimand yourself though.

Because that blissfulness and sense of contentment, unfortunately so, don't last for long.

**. . .**

You think you know it in the moment you walk into the study.

You don't know if it might be some form of paranoia sticking with you or just your general dislike for medical clinics adding to your lingering uncertainties and... concerns about this entire thing. But it feels like a bit more than a sensation born from the kind of trauma you have been through.

Maybe, after the kind of situations you have been put through you have grown particularly... _perceptive_ about certain things.

Playing to your advantage there is the fact that you have always been good in reading people. Even strangers. And... You don't like the kind of smile that the doctor - this..._ fertility expert _or whatever that Piper's gynecologist has recommended you to - gives you when she calls you into her study.

Maybe Piper is too nervous to catch the subtle signs and notice anything.

But_ you do_.

And you _hate_, above _anything _else, how you are yet again unable to do anything to prepare her for the blow that is coming except uselessly taking her hand in yours in hope that she'll brace herself.

It's a gesture that is just so easy to misinterpret. But what actually makes you feel even worse, is seeing the smile that she gives you when you slip your hand into her.

Excited.

Thrilled.

_Hopeful._

You thought that the fear you felt regarding this entire topic was one of the worst kinds you'd had to battle with.

But you soon find out that it's _nothing _compared to seeing that light, that s_parkle_ that has been there for two weeks, dim and shut off when the doctor gives her that apologetic twitchy smile bearing bad news and then _confirms _the suspicion that you had since you walked into the office.

"I'm sorry," The doctor says in the end, sounding and looking so deeply, sincerely apologetic, while Piper's gaze grows more and more distant. _Empty_.

"We have repeated the test twice with the samples you have provided, but it has still shown that your eggs count is... far inferior than expected."

You don't know exactly how it happens.

One moment the doctor is right there, saying what you hope you hadn't predicted, and the next one you see Piper's face fall. That light shutting off in her eyes, the little, soft, seemingly emotionless "_oh_" slipping past her lips and leaving her entire frame deflated yet filled with a foreign tension; her throat bobbing as she swallows - hard - what are obviously _tears_, before forcing her lips to curl in a smile that looks utterly, insincerely understanding.

It goes down so slowly that you can catch every single detail and absorb it like a series of sucker punches right in the gut. Blow after blow.

"Everything else is perfectly in order, and there are alternatives, like hormone therapy or..." The doctor's voice turns into an indistinct murmur under the thoughts that start spinning in your head all at once, and the emotions that cramp up in your chest, threatening to overwhelm your senses as your mind gets filled with the images of all those times you saw her and that joyful smile lighting up her entire face whenever she plays with her nephew. About earlier when you saw her helping that kid reading in the library, how natural she looked in that role and - unexpectedly so - with such a vicious pull that leaves you no way out, you think about how _easily _you could picture a similar domestic setting... in your own home.

And then, ultimately, a beacon lights up from your memory in the moment you recall the article that you have been reading a week ago, downstairs, in Piper's gynecologist waiting room.

It strikes you like lightning.

And before you know it, you are doing _the unthinkable._

"I'll do it."

The words just roll off your tongue with a will of their own. With an instinct that is now deeply embedded in you.

Something primal.

Vital.

As it is the need that your heart fulfills with every single beat.

The one to make Piper happy.

Which is also (selfishly so) _your own_ necessity to be happy as you _deserve _to be and that you have been denying to yourselves, after all that happened, after all you went through, all the heartache and-

You would even ponder on _how _and _why _have you been doing it if it wasn't for the fact that the meaning of what you just offered to do sinks in all at once in the following moment.

Piper's head snaps towards you, eyes wide and dazed.

Utterly incredulous.

Her lips part with a question that you can read all over her expression.

Even the doctor, who you have so brusquely interrupted in the middle of her long list of options looks at you with a certain surprise.

But you have eyes only for Piper. Who is searching your gaze and looking for an answer that you promptly deliver along with the clarification that you haven't had the chance to voice after your awkwardly, yet (paradoxically) confidently blurted offer.

"I-I mean..." You start, clearing your throat and shifting in your seat to regain a more collected and composed appearance despite the tumult of... thrilling emotions fluttering within your chest and clenching your stomach with a weird combination of trepidation and... _thrill._

Your own back straightens up without effort. Inflated as you are by this... unexpected rush adrenaline coursing and burning so invigoratingly through your veins.

"If that is the only problem, I can always give her some of my eggs. That _is _possible, right?" You may even ask, but you actually already _know_. Because the subject has scared the shit out of you since the moment Piper brought it up, but you _did _some studying and researching after all. Your wife might not know the full extension that such "researches" have brought you to, but after having come across and read that specific article last week... the only thing you are waiting to receive is just a confirmation.

The doctor, who seems just as caught unprepared by such an abrupt voluntary offer, still recovers faster that Piper still hasn't done (not even enough to _blink _out of her stupor).

"Yes of course," The doctor answers, and this time the smile that she gives you is far more reassuring and charged with positivity. "That... was going to be my next suggestion actually." She informs before going right into explaining how this kind of procedure would work.

As she does so, you look at your side, where Piper is still gaping at you, eyes wide and now also... glistening.

Brightly.

With an infinitely profound sentiment.

Raw to the core.

It _aches_ \- _so_ beautifully - even just _looking_ at it, but it brings something back in your heartbeat. A fuller, indescribable sensation that you had forgotten...

"...even though it's true and inevitable that with age eggs tend to change, decay, and become... abnormal, we have developed this new technique that we use for women over forty and that allows us to successfully select the eggs that are still normal, and extract them." The doctor thoroughly explains. "All I'm going to need from you Miss Vause is just the same test that your wife has done last week."

That's all you need to hear.

And the wide-eyed look of utter disbelief and confusion and a thousand of other different emotions that is still there covering Piper's entire face, is all you need to see before (after suppressing a smile and the chuckle bubbling within your chest) turning your attention back to the doctor and ask if

"Could you do it right now?"

**. . .**

It's only when you exit the study, after having given three vials of your blood for some preliminary testing that Piper seems to come out from her haze.

"What... just happened in there, exactly?"

It's beyond amusing, really.

Or at least it would be, enough to make you chuckle and stretch your lips into a smile in front of at that adorably dumbfounded look if, under the lightheadedness due to the gallon of blood that has just been sucked out of your veins, you weren't still a bit shocked yourself by what you have just done:

Volunteering for the very same thing you have been having doubts about and have been beyond terrified to even talk or take under _any_ kind of consideration.

At least you _thought_ so.

...until you saw that look on Piper's face. Until you have seen that hope fade and turn into a cold shadow when the doctor informed her of the test results and...

Well...

Maybe such an outcome was unavoidable.

Because you have never done so well whenever it came to deny her anything.

Least of all something she _truly_ desires.

"I'm... pretty sure I volunteered to lend you some of my eggs, find a donor, and move to the implantation of a possible embryo in your uterus." You summarize then - for _both_ of you - as you roll down the sleeve of your shirt, slipping back onto your jacket, and... it should be a bit concerning, having that realization sink in but...

Given the way Piper looks at you when you glance back at where she has halted - almost in awe, with her eyes rippling and shimmering with the tears welling up in them - you have just summarized what must have been the most generous and romantic gesture you have _ever_ done for her.

Even more romantic than write her a birthday playlist or... having fought against and stabbed to death the man that shot her and almost killed her.

This time, _she_ is the one who reaches out and pulls you into a lonely, deserted hallway and kisses you senseless, with everything she has, conveying the kind of gratitude that can't be voiced, but that still leaves you breathless and lightheaded. Completely _dazed_. And with _that_ _pull_ that starts as a flutter in your stomach and spreads both lower (deep into your belly in that unmistakable way) but also higher, throbbing within the cavity of your chest at the rhythm of your wildly beating heart that has never felt lighter.

"I've got to remember including medical speeches in our list of kinks and dirty talks if _this_ is the effect it has on you," It's an honest reminder, but the smile in your voice and the subtle little smirk that stretches on the corner of your mouth, make it sound like a quip thrown in an attempt to dispell the heavy emotions threatening to overwhelm you.

You succeed only in part though. Because Piper may even breathe a wet laugh at that humorous comment, but she still looks at you like _that_. All bright eyes filled with tears and infinite gratefulness and... that shimmer of hope that you have seen fade away earlier.

It returns burning brighter than ever.

"I don't even know what to say," She admits, and you should probably mark the day for _more_ than just one reason then if you _actually _managed the impossible task of rendering her _speechless_.

You almost tease her about it. Instead, even though you would _love_ to see her turning into that lovely shade of pink, you reach out and wipe at the tear that slides down her cheek when she blinks and sniffles.

"You don't have to say anything," You assure her with all your honesty, smiling, emboldened, inflated with a dizzying amount of confidence, and yet feeling so tremendously _light_ at the same time that you temporarily forget about your doubts and concerns regarding this idea. Reminding her (and also yourself) that:

"We are in this together, remember?"

The soft, breathy sound that slips past her lips is a laugh, but the tears rising in her throat turn it into a wet choked sob.

And it might be the first time _ever_ that, seeing her crying, makes you smile.

Okay... maybe it's the _second time_...

The kiss you pull her into is much softer, meant to reassure her, comfort her, and yet, at the same time, Piper answers back with an overwhelming affection that only adds to that sense of giddiness you are already experiencing.

It sizzles so sweetly.

If there could be a way to translate it, would be the most deeply heartfelt "thank you" and the "I love you" you never have to voice to each other, and that in this moment burns so fiercely to scorch away any remnant of the fears that might have been lingering between the fringes of your still wounded, battered, frayed soul. Bringing warmth in a space that you have only allowed the cold gust of darkness to fill out of guilt and unworthiness and... _helplessness._

You would have never thought that _this_, that seeing that look of profound disappointment, of failure and heartbreak on her face, would have given you the kind of strength to slay all those three major demons at once.

But... that's exactly what just happened.

In uncertainty, and into the infinite vastness of possibilities that it holds, when you pull back (unwilling but forced to in order to breathe) and see that teary smile on her face... it reassures you and has you convinced that you have just chosen the only one option there was. Even if you didn't know was there until the very last moment.

"Come on," You tell her, smirking, taking her hand and tugging her still-stunned-self towards the lobby. "Let's see if they have a baby-daddy catalog we can borrow."

**. . .**

They do.

Although...

"Usually catalogs have pictures, don't they?"

"Well, this one doesn't, we are shopping for genetic material after all, not new furniture, _darling._" Piper points out, chuckling at the face you do at that term. "Or would you rather see the kind of _material_ we are _actually_ shopping for?"

You swear that she _just_ says that only to see the snear of utter disgust that instantly contorts your features.

"Ugh, please _no_."

And just like that, your assumption about her comment being uttered only for self-amusement reasons, gets confirmed to you when she starts laughing upon seeing the shiver of repulsion that races up your spine.

You glare at her. But whatever warning such look holds, it gets completely ignored as Piper simply leans in to plant an apologetic kiss on your lips. And you are powerless to do anything other than melt right onto it.

"Do you have any request, _honey_?"

Her voice may still be laced with that teasing thread, her eyes may also sparkle with a lingering amusement mingled with that affection that has been burning to its fiercerst in the past couple of days, but the question that she asks you when you part, is a legitimate one.

And one you also have an answer ready for as soon as you manage to regain focus - still a bit dazed by the softness of that kiss and the tingling warmth that has brought to your insides - and find those clear blue eyes looking back at you with a mixture of adoration and amusement.

"Blue eyes." You tell her, reaching out and tucking a strand of her golden hair behind her ear.

"And light hair."

Because if the egg is going to be yours, and the... _other_ genetic material is going to be coming from a complete stranger, for how little, minimalistic really - you would still like to see a bit of Piper in the baby. And those two little traits might help.

Although... You might even regret suggesting such thing in the moment you see the ear to ear grin that slowly splits Piper's face in half.

"Should he also have my irresistible charm as well?" She asks, flashing you what must be the most _awkward_ smirk in history.

You almost choke on the sound that slips from your lips. Something that is in between a scoffed laugh and a groan.

"Ugh, nevermind. I'm sure you'll have all the time to pass along your _dorkiness_ to the baby."

And then, much to your immense delight, Piper gasps and blushes and sputters something incomprehensibly defensive. Leaving you there to burst out laughing, victorious and beyond pleased by the wide-eyed, mouth-gaping look of utter dismay before you decide to not fluster her any further and just get her attention back on the catalogue opened on the coffee table, flipping through pages and pages of... ugh... _genetic material_.

**. . .**

It's about acceptance, you believe.

You may not be ready for things to chance yet since you are still adjusting to your new life, but your willingness has shown that you are actually far more open about the possibility of your life taking this path than you didn't know or wanted to admit to yourself. Perhaps even... hopeful.

You may even wonder if you could have been forcing yourself into this situation and give yourself no other choice but to just accept it by offering your aid to Piper's little... infertility problem, out of that need to be and feel somehow useful but... the selfishness of such motivation would have completely clashed no matter what if you were_ truly_ unwilling.

No...

You _must_ want this.

You need something that will help you feel anchored to this life and not just held back by the repercussion of your mistakes, of what they have brought you to do, of what they almost _cost_ you.

You have already recognized and acknowledged them. And now you need to look forward. To do better and especially be better, you think, absently twisting the ring on your finger.

Surprisingly, you don't come to such a... peacefully matter-of-fact realization during one of your sessions with Doctor Campbell, and maybe, the fact that you reach it on your own, while you are laying down on the gynecological exam bed in nothing but a hospital gown and waiting for the two doctors in the room to finish the preparations and start the procedure, renders it all the more meaningful.

**. . .**

The whole eggs-harvesting thing turns out to be... surprisingly _fast_.

Piper can't be there with you since the procedure is rather delicate even though relatively easy despite the precision that it requires.

It's mostly painless, too.

But afterward...

**. . .**

"Ugh..."

It's like someone just drilled your insides, which is... not _so _far from the kind of procedure you have just endured actually.

"You still in pain, sweetie?"

Piper's voice, and the tenderness in it, for once, isn't soothing enough, though.

Your answer is something in between an affirmative humming noise and a groan as you curl up a bit more onto yourself on the bed.

It's like suffering from the worst period cramps _ever, _which the doctor has already warned you could happen. Even if, now that you think about it, the whole "you could experience some soreness and uncomfortable pressure" after-procedure speech, has been a far too light and general warning, one that hasn't prepared you for something of _this caliber._

"Here," The mattress dips beneath you when Piper takes a seat on the edge, urging you to turn around. It requires a great amount of effort, but miraculously so, you manage.

"These should help a little." She says, offering you a couple of pills and a tall glass of water along with the most deeply apologetic and sympathetic look for your current, utterly _miserable_ conditions.

Usually, you would hesitate at the prospect of taking painkillers.

You haven't grown particularly fond of medications, what with the never-ceasing pain in your hand and all those you had to take after the several surgeries, you have never gotten used to that dullness that usually follows, but today, you take the ones that Piper is offering you without even thinking about it. Gulping them down with the entire glass of water before flopping down onto the bed once again.

"Ugh," You groan, folding your arms around your throbbing midsection. "It is so _not _fair that men get just the fun part out of this entire thing." It's probably the way you just said that, more than the general unfairness of human reproduction what succeeds in tearing a soft chuckle from Piper's lips. Or maybe it is hearing you _whine_ in the first place.

"Yeah well, I could say that it's not fair that it has turned out that _you_ happen to have a far higher eggs count than mine given your age-"

"Hey now..."

"_But_..." She instantly amends, grasping your hand and bringing it to her smirking lips to brush the softest kiss over your knuckles. "Since it still plays in our favor I can hardly be mad about it."

She means it.

There is no trace of resentment seeping in her voice or adding weight in those words.

Just... the same honest gratitude displayed in that simple, incredibly tender gesture, and showing just as well in the softer smile curling on her lips and in the glimmer sparkling in her eyes.

It's the kind of look that has you hold back from throwing her a murderous glance after that "your age" comment - as if you already didn't know how old you are to get into this entire thing.

Well... there it _that_ smile and also the initially cryptic invitation to "Turn around." Because, apparently, "I bet I can make it all better."

She even flashes you a smirk, and... despite the kind of invitation you have just received it's not _so_ mischievous. But even in your current conditions, it would be simply unforgivable to let such occasion slip through your fingers in such way.

"At the risk of having sex denied for an obscenely long amount of time when I'll feel better," You start, cautiously. "I'm not sure if you have noticed Pipes, but I'm _really not_ in the mood or conditions right now to be fooling around- _ow_!" You half hiss and half chuckle when she pinches your side.

"Just turn around, you perv." She repeats, and this time you wisely decide _not _to point out that, between the two of you, _she_ is the one who happens to have the dirtiest- or rather the most... _original_ (not to mention longer) list of kinks.

You just turn around as ordered without much of a protest. Rolling onto your stomach and humming in pure contentment when you feel Piper's weight settling onto the back of your thighs, straddling you from behind, sliding her hands under your shirt and seeking for a very specific spot on your lower back, just beside your sacral dimples, using her thumbs to apply the most exquisite amount of pressure that has you release a louder groan of approval while the rest of your body melts further into the bed under the delightful ministration.

It doesn't do much to diminish the uncomfortable tightness in your lower belly, but the pressure point Piper is currently massaging with a certain expertness, surely helps in bringing a significant amount of relief and melt away _some_ of _that_ discomfort.

It's extremely pleasant. So much that you don't even know whether it is the effect of the analgesics that might be kicking in, or if it is actually that ministration alone what manages to lessen the pain after just a few minutes.

It's probably a combination of the two things.

Although it is well known that Piper's hands have a way to make you feel better that it's _unequal_ to the effect of _any _kind of drug you have ever tried, used- or _abused_.

You would probably even tell her as much if you didn't already know that such... compliment would go straight to her head and inflate that monster that is (still) her ego.

You can't quite smother the blissful sigh of contentment and relief that slips past your lips when you exhale though, and that is enough to give you away.

"Feeling better, baby?"

Much to your surprise though, there isn't that specific note of satisfaction in that question. Just honest curiosity laced with that thread of concern.

Usually, hearing it (no matter how feeble) would be enough to make you turn around and reassure her, but it doesn't weight so hard on her voice to compel you to do so. Also... Piper may not give you a choice at all in the matter when she retrieves her hands from under your shirt and lays on top of you, planting a kiss on the side of your neck and seeking your hands where you have shoved them under the pillow.

It should make you feel trapped.

The fact that you can't breathe properly should (by itself) maybe even get to trigger a flashback. And yet... Having her weight pressing down on you _like this,_ is one of the most exquisite, grounding feelings there is. As the happy, humming-like noise that rumbles in the back of your throat (and that resembles an actual _purr_) oh so blatantly suggests.

"Yes..." You answer eventually, somehow managing to stifle a chuckle and hold back a shiver when Piper deliberately teases that sensitive, ticklish spot on the side of your neck with the tip of her nose, but totally unable to contain the full laugh that bursts free when the dork that is your wife whispers (as if only now realizing so) that:

"You loaned me your eggs."

She still sounds a bit incredulous, but also in awe, and... delighted, so deeply moved by such gesture.

You can practically feel the grin stretching on her lips as realization sinks deeper into her awareness.

The first impulse you have as soon as your laugh dies down, is tell her something equally dorky, like, "I'm afraid that you are going to bake _the cake_ all by yourself though."

Instead, you turn around, forcing her to slide off you.

"What can I say..." You retort, rolling onto your side and shrugging, the smile on your lips taking that curl it always does whenever you get the chance to tease her. "I've always been a good neighbor."

It's not like the joke doesn't exactly land, but... under the smile that it elicits from Piper, there is also that _other,_ deeply emotional look reappearing back on her face, reaching her eyes, and making them shimmer in that way that makes your heart leap and throb within your chest.

Even harder when she reaches out and traces the side of your face with nothing short of pure adoration.

"You are an even greater wife."

There is a stutter in your chest.

A delightful feeling you know you'll never get used to.

"Thank you." She adds gratefully, but- the emotions in her voice are what make your heart do yet another flip.

Even so, you shake your head, your own smile dimming into something softer because, "You don't have to thank me, Piper." You tell her, sincerely. "I'm doing this because... I _do_ want it."

It's not the first time that you say it out loud, but it's the first time you do it so directly, without wavering, without experiencing that bit of nervousness seizing your voice. It's the first time it falls from your lips so easily, so... matter of factly. Your actions, the fact that you have volunteered, has spoken louder than anything you could ever say to her, but making such admission and seeing the smile that spreads across Piper's face when you utter such truth... it brings you an amount of comfort that you don't feel guilty in taking this time.

Maybe because you truly mean it.

Because you convey it with nothing else but all your honesty.

But you can't blame Piper when, after a moment of contemplation spent chewing nervously on her bottom lip, she, oh so tentatively, presents you a fair, legitimate question.

"Can I ask you what has made you change your mind?"

There is that spike of nervousness, that jittery feeling starting in the pit of your stomach, and Piper, as perceptive as she seems to have become after the latest, most traumatic events, notices immediately.

There isn't an accusation or anything hiding behind that question.

There isn't even the slightest note of suspicious seeping in her voice, just... pure curiosity laced with that bit of dread about such reason being something that isn't linked directly to your willingness.

A lingering doubt that you don't wait a second longer to erase.

You could explain all the thoughts you have had to elaborate during these past few weeks, or... you can just provide her with the one, most obvious and simpler answer of all.

The one that holds the one and only truth.

And that's exactly what you do.

"_You did._"

Because, ultimately, everything has been reduced to your main focus.

_Her._

Her arguments, witnessing in person the display of that natural instinct that she possesses and that you can't- have _no right_ to deny her or... yourself.

You don't tell her so, but the look you give her is open enough in all its uncomfortable vulnerability for her to read perfectly those motivations.

And that's probably what makes those blue lakes ripple and shine all the brighter and what makes her pull you closer to her and right into a long passionate kiss that leaves you a little bit breathless and lightheaded.

It's born from gratitude. But it broadens into pride about your progress. And you accept it fully.

Eventually though - or rather inevitably - her hands start to roam, slipping once again under your shirt in a rather... _tempting_ way that has you shudder and groan into her mouth when she digs her fingernails onto your abdomen, scratching ever so slightly, yet firmly enough to drive you a bit insane.

It's torturous.

Because you don't need persuasion when it comes to _that_, and now it would be so perfect to wrap up this moment with that ribbon of passion born from your affection. But you _can't _right now.

The procedure you have been through has been quite delicate after all, and left you a bit tender. And the doctor may have actually forbidden you this kind of... entertainment for the next couple of days that it's going to take you to recover.

But... For how enjoyable it would be receiving the kind of attentions that Piper seems to be quite eager to pay you, you have always gotten an even greater fulfillment in returning them to her.

You take your chance when she deepens the kiss, hooking her leg onto your waist and using it as leverage to flip you both, reclaiming your rightful position on top of her.

Piper squeaks at the swift movement, but she definitely doesn't protest at the familiar position, if the grin that stretches across her face is anything to go by.

You take her hands and hold them above her head, pressing them against the mattress.

You don't know if you'll ever feel comfortable enough with getting adventurous by using proper restraints. Just the thought is enough to twist your stomach on itself and make the acid pooled there rise up in your throat.

But this is just to further establish dominance, not _actively_ restrain her. And the warmth and softness of her skin, the feeling of her fingers intertwining with yours... This you can handle, and take pleasure in the way she always responds to it by arching onto you.

"You know," You tell her, smirking when her legs wrap instinctively around your hips, urging your waists closer in an extremely _suggestive _way.

"Things would be _much_ simpler if we could be able to do this in the _conventional_ way."

She does a double take.

Those blue eyes instantly grow wide and her mouth falls open, incredulous.

It takes you a lot not to laugh in front of that look (or groan at what your own comment would _actually_ imply) but you manage, although unable to do anything to get rid of the smirk printed on your lips. "Biological impossibilities or not, we just may not have tried hard enough."

And this... This earns you the full, booming laugh that almost throws you off her and that you were hoping to elicit from her.

The last thing you want after having earned such a joyful, amused laugh from your wife is risk bringing back that heartbroken look that has shadowed her eyes and cut deep into your own flesh, enough to see and recognize the glimpses of something you didn't know you desired, but... all jokes aside, you still feel the need to actually remind her (and maybe even prepare her) of the fact that:

"You know that the possibilities that this will work are still limited, right?"

Her laugh has already subdued when you ask her such question, the air light enough by the dissipating humor to hold all the weight that your words- your warning keeps.

But there was clearly no need for you to remind her of such thing.

She _does _know. And what instantly assures you that you didn't ruin everything by making such a careful remark and having her face the reality of statistics and all of that, shows in how... unconcerned she looks about that possibility.

"The fact that you are willing to try, that you have even _offered,_ it's already-"

"Enough?" You ask, and you don't mean to interrupt her, but there is this swirl of mixed emotions fluttering wildly in your belly that just pushes the words out without your consent.

A long moment of silence follows, and it seems to stretch into full minutes with the trepidation swelling further inside you and tensing up your frame on top of her. But then...

Once again, Piper smiles- that teary emotional smile, shaking her head, and looking at you as if you are not just enough, but...

"_Everything_." She corrects, reaching out and stroking back your hair before cradling your jaw in her palm with the same tenderness and infinite affection overflowing her eyes.

"It means everything."

This time you don't escape that teary look.

You don't feel so undeserving, so _unworthy_ of that deep, raw sentiment.

Maybe it has something to do with the fact that you_ actively_ did_ something_ to banish away that crippling feeling of helplessness.

Or maybe... it just _is_.

You don't question it.

You just lean in to kiss her with a firm softness that is eagerly returned.

It tingles and sizzles with the rising heat of passion and acceptance, before you move lower down her body and wordlessly express her how much, without her, you would be nothing either.

* * *

**I'm far from an expert on how the whole IVF works, but getting into all the details wasn't my priority, I just wanted to get into the procedure and I might have even inserted some facts to fit with the plot just to have a **_**Vauseman baby **_**from them both. Well... kind of :D ****Anyway, at risk of sounding annoyingly redundant, I just wanted to remind you guys once again that I'm far behind with the show's seasons and that I would be deeply grateful if you'd keep from mentioning anything about season six. Also, I should probably tell you that this story isn't going to be obscenely long like my previous one (Pleasure of Business) but yeah, you have seen the length of the chapters, so... you know :D**


	3. Chapter 3

Hey there!

I know, I'm later than usual with this update. Truth is I really, really tried to get it ready for last week, but between duties and work and errands, I wasn't able to. Also, there were a few points here and there that just didn't feel as right as I wanted them to. And so I preferred to take a few days longer to give the chapter the tone I was after and correct a few things, and... I'm glad I did :)

Still, I thank you all,_ so much,_ for having been so patient in waiting for this chapter guys, and for all the nice things you left in your lovely comments about the previous ones:D

Now, here I leave you with the new chapter :) And yes, the length is of the same caliber of the previous two, so... grab an apple to snack on :D

Enjoy

* * *

"You offered to go through with the procedure?"

You see it immediately.

Firstly in the way those attentive dark eyes widen and brighten up, and then in the little upward twitch that Doctor Campbell's slightly wrinkled lips do, tilting oh so very subtly into an unmistakable s_mile_.

It's... a curious expression.

You don't know what it shows, exactly. The subtlety in it makes it practically unreadable. Even _for you._

But what is deeply reassuring about it, is that there's no trace of the kind of shock that you were afraid to see or hear weighting in your therapist's voice after having informed her about the latest, _massive_ developments.

You just nod as a timid kind of smile curls foreignly on your own lips, making you duck your head in order to mask the repercussion of such awkwardness showing quite easily on your extremely fair complexion.

"I did." You answer, and when, eventually, after having regained a bit of composure, you dare to glance back up from where your gaze had fallen in your lap and fidgety hands, the smile on Doctor Campbell's face has stretched into something far less subtle and much more transparent.

However, for how reassuring it is being met with the sight of it instead of the chilly scrutiny of judgment, you still frown, puzzled.

Unable not to observe that, "You... don't look surprised."

For a moment you actually think that it might be your own imagination playing tricks when you see the way that smile twitches a bit higher, briefly shifting into what might be an actual playful (utterly unprofessional) _smirk_, before your therapist simply arches an inquiring eyebrow and answers you with a question of her own.

"Should I?"

It's rhetorical enough, and the relief that swells inside you almost has you release the breath that you weren't aware you have been holding, in the form of a chuckle.

Because _no_. As a matter of fact, considering everything you have discussed regarding the matter during these past several weeks, she shouldn't be surprised _at all_.

She has made it abundantly clear which her thoughts were since that time; when you first involuntarily brought up the subject with her during a session.

Somehow, she had faith that you would have ended up doing what you didn't know you desired, and that _she_, despite your inability (or unwillingness) to do so, had somehow been able to see so easily. So..._ plainly._

Maybe even she knew that there was no chance you would have ever been able to deny this to Piper. And to deny to yourself a second chance- to prove yourself worthy. To do things _right_.

Well... _sort of_.

During the past week, ever since you went through the procedure, your mind and your general emotional state has navigated between feelings of optimism and confidence and just-as-positive thoughts like "it's going to be okay". But you have also steered close to a far more uncensored, shocked version of "what the fuck have I done" that was more out of disbelief actually and some understandable spike of panic, but... No regret.

You might have internally freaked out a little bit, but you haven't made a move, a comment or actively done anything to actually backtrack despite scarcely believing that you have agreed to go through with this at last, playing a very important, _crucial_ part in first person for the whole procedure.

"So, how does it feel?"

The question tears you out from your thoughts and back into the present, blinking back into focus and watching as Doctor Campbell leans forward. Her bony elbows come to rest on the knees of her crossed legs, assuming the kind of position that makes the scenario and her question (dashed with that curious, maybe even slightly entertained smile) sound and look like more of a _friendly _rather than a professional setting.

It's... sincere, from her part, though.

She doesn't act more easily and lighthearted just to make you feel more comfortable.

Your relationship is well past that point of mistrust.

But feeling more comfortable is exactly the unexpected result that such approach ends up having on you.

The thought still has you feel quite a bit giddy actually.

Oddly thrilled.

But also- _mostly_, at the same time, you are simply-

"I'm fucking _terrified_."

You have never been the kind of person who opened up enough to let strangers peek under the heavy armor you wear with caution. But your guard has lowered further and further around Doctor Campbell with each session, and that thick barrier that was there at the beginning has been taken down definitively, allowing you to focus on how you actually _feel_ in order to answer in the most honest way without having to feel defensive and think about what s_he_ might read in your response.

In such instance for example, perceptive as you usually, naturally are around people, you should probably have expected the full, deeply amused laugh that your extremely blunt confession elicits from your therapist.

"Oh, I believe you," She assures as her laugh subsides into a quiet, elegant chuckle and that smile blooms into an actual grin that marks even harder, yet gracefully, the crinkles of time at the corners of her eyes. "But whether you believe it or not Alex, it would be worrying if you actually_ weren't_ scared out of your mind right now."

Only you can find that answer comforting. But, in all its bluntness, it actually _is_.

She doesn't ask you what has changed your mind.

Maybe because she _knows_ that such thought has _always_ been in your mind.

Buried under the crippling, crushing weight of self-consciousness, of doubt, of all the fears and sense of unwhortiness hissed by the demons hiding between the fringes of your healing soul, and that have been overwhelming you. Not to mention that given the amount of information you have provided her with during your sessions, she might have gotten the idea about what kind of powerful _influence_ Piper has over you without your wife even having to press too hard.

"I'm not surprised, Alex." Your therapist says, shaking her head, answering to your previous statement and confirming your assumption as her expression eases back into that easy, lighter, deeply comforting smile that she has given you earlier. "I'm _impressed_," She corrects. "And also pleased, by all your progress."

It's so unexpected that you actually startle in your seat upon hearing _that_.

"_P-progress?_"

And yes, you are so caught off guard by such statement that you actually _stutter_. Which is highly embarrassing, even if Doctor Campbell doesn't seem to acknowledge such emotion or give it much importance, simply limiting her answer to a professional assessment, shifting back into her professional role and also regaining her previous, more composed posture as she does so.

"You came to the realization that this is actually something you wanted," She summarizes.

"And you did it all by yourself," She also points out.

"If that isn't progress, I don't know how else I should call it."

Your argumentative nature (which may have been strengthened with time in order to keep up with your wife's own insufferable stubbornness) instinctively pushes you a little to debate such statement.

And there is no explaining how _dismayed_ you feel when you find out that you actually _can't_ debate over _anything_ of what Doctor Campbell just said, who just smiles at you. A real, full smile that feels oddly reassuring in a way and that may even remind you of that proud look that you have seen on Piper's face a couple of weeks ago when you went at her school and saw her there- tucked away in that corner in the library, helping that kid reading.

"See?" Doctor Campbell might even have to stifle a chuckle. Looking clearly amused in seeing your spectacular imitation of a fish out of water, which has your embarrassment reach a whole new level.

This time, however, when she writes something down on her notepad you might still feel that bit of uneasiness stirring in your stomach and making you squirm a little in your seat. But that smile is still there, curling her lips with that proud little tilt, which is, by itself, the ultimate reassurance that whatever she might be writing down is not a negative note.

Quite the opposite in fact.

Which, paradoxically enough, makes you experience a whole new kind of nervousness.

**. . .**

Standing on what your therapist said, you may be making progress.

And maybe you would even believe so with more conviction (instead of simply meeting such assessment about your so-called "progress" with a fair amount of skepticism) if it wasn't for one big issue that keeps persisting...

**. . .**

You used to love it.

The lights and noise and generic frenzy of a city that never sleeps and thrums with life, relentlessly. Erratically. Just... _restless._

Day and night.

It's not as frenetic here in this side of the city, but it's still quite... _tumultuous_.

More than you remembered.

But you have had quite a long time to get used to the relative "quietness" during your stay in prison, where your senses got a chance to re-adjust.

And now - that frenzy that you liked so much, and into which you could see reflected a part of yourself - now you can barely stand it.

"I think we should move somewhere less chaotic..."

You aren't surprised that Piper has noticed how hard you are struggling with the general chaos that gets constantly generated by the city.

Her attentiveness - _especially_ the one that she has towards you - has grown exponentially ever since... well... all the _mess_ you have been put through.

But you are far beyond being simply surprised, and actually feeling a bit shocked when she comes up with such suggestion.

Your gaze gets torn away from the pages of the book opened in your lap as you half-turn and half-bolt from the couch to look at her, blinking into focus, quite a bit startled and wide-eyed, because it's not like you were _expecting _her to pop up behind you at two in the morning.

You have made sure not to disturb her when you have given up your pointless chase of an elusive sleep by turning over and over again and just decided to slip out of bed, grabbing the unfinished novel sitting on your nightstand before going to make yourself a cup of valerian root tea.

"Your job is here." It's what you simply state after the long moment of pause that it takes you to recover by her unexpected presence. But that's just the first one of the many arguments you truly have regarding the matter. Which are all about her though, _like_...

Work (which is mostly the only source of your income at the moment).

Family (who refuse to even _speak _to you beside Piper's brother and sister-in-law).

Friends (who _barely_ stand you).

It's not like you can blame them or her parents though. Really.

You almost got their daughter _killed,_ after all.

And if it wasn't for that, they would still not trust you or spare you a second glance that isn't a murderous one given that _you_ are the reason for her general downfall into a life of crime, prison and all that it brought.

So you think you might actually deserve the antagonism, even if Piper insists that her parents: "they don't detest you, honey. They are just coming around at their own pace." And, standing on what she says, especially (shockingly so) _her mother, _of _all _people, seems to be the one who - sometimes, when they are on the phone - even asks how you are fairing.

Just like she says that the few friends she has left actually "like you".

_Riiight._

Although... occasional awkwardness aside, Polly is always somewhat... Nice, with you, whenever she comes by.

As you blink out of your stupor, you notice the way Piper's lips twitch into a sleepy version of a smile, looking quite a bit amused in having had the chance to catch you by surprise like she just did... _for once_.

"I'm not suggesting leaving _definitively_," She assures you as she pads closer, feet bare and silent on the carpet, but such answer hardly settles your doubts on the matter. If anything it actually triggers a few _more_ questions.

The kind that you don't even have to voice.

Because, apparently, the crinkle of confusion that forms between your eyebrows is more than enough for her to elaborate.

Not without a certain amount of uncharacteristic self-consciousness though.

"There are... _uhm_," She hesitates, chewing on her bottom lip, ducking her head and tucking a strand of golden hair behind her ear in that incredibly endearing way that puts on display that timid part of herself that you sometimes forget she possesses.

"There are a few lovely houses just on the other side of the river..."

You are so entertained by that look (which might bring you back in time a little, when you were both younger and carefree and _totally unaware_ of the challenges that your future held) and by that subtle tinge of pink scalding her cheeks ever so slightly, that it takes you a moment for her words to reach you and properly sink in.

But when they do, you almost choke on your tea, almost spilling the sip you just took all over the book that is still opened in your lap.

"W-wait," You wheeze, cough, and then breathe, setting your teacup on the coffee table before turning to face her. "You mean like..._ Jersey City?_"

And now, _she_ is the one who looks oh so _deeply_ entertained by the shock that widens your eyes like saucers.

"Piper, t-that's-"

"It's not _so_ far," She immediately chides in, reassuringly, looking so ready - as expected - to present you with the endless list of arguments she must have already prepared in advance as she finally takes a seat on the couch, curling up in that cozy space between you and the crook of the armrest, tucking her bare feet beneath her before reaching out to grab the cup of tea that you have set aside.

"In fact, it would only add a couple of miles, mostly because of the bridge - for me to get at the school district, and also for you to get to your therapist's office in Midtown." She informs before taking a sip of your tea.

She makes a bit of a face at the taste, because you didn't sweeten it, and it's slightly, naturally bitter, and Piper (even though she is far too embarrassed to ever admit such thing given the inconsistency that it creates with her organic and _allegedly_ sugar-free lifestyle) happens to have an endearing sweet tooth. She _always_ had.

And, _usually_, you would find that little, brief snear and twitch of distaste that she does with her nose, so deeply amusing.

At the moment however you can just look at her as you recover, until your eyes, from wide and disbelieving, narrow with a hint of suspicious that you probably shouldn't even feel, because given the way she talks about this, it _really_ seems like... "You have been looking into houses on-sale already, haven't you?"

And if you had _any_ doubt that she hadn't, it gets completely erased when that subtle flush of pink that you have seen tinging her cheeks, suddenly blazes into something far more visible at your... _accusation_. Those blue eyes dart away from you just as guiltily. And even her fingers show some of that self-consciousness as they nervously trace the embossed, Christmasy design adorning the steaming cup nestled between her hands.

"...I have." She murmurs, still looking so uncharacteristically timid, yet not exactly embarrassed when she lifts her gaze again and locks it tentatively with yours.

"There are a few houses scattered in a couple of quiet neighborhoods there with a lease-option, and which rent would actually be slightly lower than this place we have here," She explains, throwing a general glance around your living room, involuntarily coaxing you to look around as well.

Piper has found your current apartment before you got released from prison.

It's the first place she has gotten on her own.

And she took it with you on her mind.

For_ both of you._

You know it means something to her.

You know that it's some kind of symbol of her newly reclaimed life as a free woman and in sharing it _with you_.

Still...

"I don't know Pipes..." You sigh, closing your novel and leaning forward to place it on the coffee table, rubbing at your temples and trying not to get swallowed by the pressure of yet another possible new change you'll have to face.

"This place..." You start, glancing around at all the little details that Piper has refined by using some of her unmistakable touch that has undoubtedly lent the place some character. "It's good, and I know how much it means to yo-"

But you don't get the chance to finish your argument or even that sentence that Piper promptly interrupts you before you can say another word.

"_It does_," She confirms, and the combination of firmness and softness in her voice is what brings your attention away from the surroundings and back to her.

"But I got it for _us_," She stresses, with the same firmness dashed with that soft smile that reaches her eyes and makes them sparkle with all the emotions that you see rippling in them and that don't fail in promptly making your heart throb, even harder when she sets the cup of tea aside and leans forward to confess you that,

"I know that you are... _struggling_... with the noise." It's the word she settles for at last, choosing it cautiously. "That it's _interfering_ with your sleep at night..."

That's putting it mildly.

But she is right. _irrefutably_ so, given your current situation.

You shift self-consciously on the spot, ducking your head, unable not to feel slightly embarrassed, apologetic and also somehow guilty, too. Because maybe you haven't been _as quiet_ as you thought you had been when you have slipped out of bed earlier, and if it weren't for _that_, maybe you wouldn't have had to face the vastness of possibilities that Piper seems to be so genuinely inclined to consider if it means it's going to affect positively your general recovery.

Although... maybe Piper simply woke up when she rolled over and found the space beside her - _your side of the bed_ \- vacant and cold.

Whatever the case might be, you are unable to deny her assumption.

The nightmares might have... diminished, strangely enough.

Not that you are complaining about _that_, even though the rather sudden change surely puzzles you a bit.

Even so, when you are not tormented by those, it is indeed the city what keeps you up for hours on end at night and what drives you closer to insanity when you hear the sirens of an ambulance and slip right back into one of those flashbacks.

Thinking about it doesn't help in the slightest.

A chill instantly races down your spine.

The center of your palm starts to ache.

But before that feeling can get the chance to sink deeper and nestle within your belly and turn into that stomach-twisting sensation that usually has bile rise in the back of your throat, Piper reaches out, banishing that impulse away with the most simple gesture.

"_Al_,"

She says, capturing your attention with the softest whisper of the nickname that only she has ever used to address you, because she has learned to recognize_ those signs_. And that soft tone, as well as the comforting feeling of her hand slipping into yours with such gentleness and naturalness, it's all it takes for you to get tugged away from that precipice; from looking down at that abyss you didn't know you have been approaching and standing so close to, lifting your gaze again and meeting those two pools of blue.

"There is no point in staying in one place despite the comforts it offers when all that surrounds it makes you uncomfortable." She points out, absently stroking that spot at the center of your palm that gathers all the tension from the injury you have sustained- or rather _inflicted_ on yourself that night.

"...No matter how much you might like it." She concludes.

It still... surprises you.

_Amazes_ you, actually.

This... new side of her.

The way she manages to take away the fear and tension seizing your body with a few words, one look, and the most natural and simple gesture.

You look at her and wonder _how_ has she gotten so perceptive, so... Wise and _thoughtful_.

You can't help but also wonder if it was _that experience_ that she's had lived.

If it has been toeing the line of death what has granted her such virtues.

...Or if that has been what she needed to uncover them from some kind of secret, hidden place where they have always been buried underneath.

Before you can risk plunging back into that abyss of dark thoughts, Piper flashes you one of those smiles that makes your heart stutter all over the next couple of beats, looking a bit encouraged by the way you subconsciously squirm and waver with uncertainty under the lightness that her argument holds.

"So, what do you say?" She asks, tentatively, with that same carefulness with which she has slipped her hand into yours. A thread of nervousness that laces onto her tone and carries in the subtle twitchiness of her fingers, showing just as subtly in her smile, too, as her other thumb brushes lovingly over the knuckles of your uninjured hand, and it isn't lost on you how she lingers for a moment longer on your annular, where she absently brushes the elegant titanium band that has been there ever since she slid it so perfectly in place.

As sturdy as the love you have for each other.

As unbendable as Piper's resolution to persuade you.

"Would you... care to go for a tour and take a look just out of curiosity?" She ventures, tentatively. Cautiously.

Her smile may even falter a little, but that light shimmering in her eyes hasn't dimmed in the slightest.

On the contrary, it might even grow brighter when she sees you chewing contemplatively at the inner corner of your bottom lip. But you really don't have to think _that hard_ before providing her an answer. Your shoulders sag with the yielding sigh that you release, watching as that smile on her lips spreads into one of those full, dimpled, delighted grins of victory when, _eventually_ you nod in confirmation.

**. . .**

If the thought had crossed your mind when Piper first came up with the suggestion about moving, the doubt gets erased once and for all when you go to... "_take a tour_" (as she called it) of the habitations on sale/rent in your possible new neighborhood.

You might spend the entire ride there with a little inward snear that actually grows into something far more visible on the outside the further you move away from the city, cross the bridge, and skip past the town center. Heading towards the much-dreaded suburbs.

You may dislike the idea, but you can't ignore that the first thing that stands out to you as soon as you step out of the car, is the quietness.

The noise of the city carries through the bridge. But that tumult gets lost into an indistinct humming noise under the whisper of the wind - a sound you had almost forgotten - rustling the drying orange leaves left on the balding trees.

Even the air is different.

It actually _smells_ different.

Lighter.

Fresher.

Or, as Piper would undoubtedly describe it, _healthier_.

And despite the eye-roll that such adjective would elicit from you, she would be right.

Also, despite that bit of uncertainty that you are experiencing because of this entire idea, you still find yourself breathing much more easily and, eventually, because of it - and perhaps even because of the reassuring smile that you find on Piper's face (which might grow a bit wider every time you glance at her) even those traces of uneasiness melt away, relaxing your entire posture with each breath you draw in.

You spend an entire, sunny Saturday afternoon checking the vacant houses scattered in two adjacent neighborhoods, all in the company of a chatty real estate agent that you are more than happy to leave to Piper to deal with, much to her frustration and your _endless_ amusement.

Back in your previous life, this kind of scenario would have been nothing short than nightmarish. Now however, even though your nose still twitches in distaste about the _unfamiliarity _that comes with taking into consideration the possibility to a_ctually_ settle in this kind of place (where you are ready to bet people welcome you into the neighborhood with a warm basket of homemade blueberry muffins as an excuse to intrude into your life) you aren't as _repulsed _by the idea as you thought you would be.

It's still _not _your thing though.

But so isn't traveling around the world as a drug trafficker anymore, you reason.

You would have never imagined that this was going to turn out being the so-called middle-ground.

But the actual suburbs are just... _too much_ for you to handle.

The setting may be nice, but the kind of life you guess you'd end up having in a place like this clashes _completely_ with the core of who you _are._

Also, these kinds of neighborhoods just give you the Illusion of actual privacy. Rendering the quietness surrounding it quite deceptive.

Eventually, you come to the conclusion that _no_...

You couldn't picture yourself living in this place even if it was _the last_ surviving neighborhood left on earth after an apocalypse.

And what is exceptionally relieving about coming to such realization, is that you don't even have to utter a single word to Piper and risk seeing that look of disappointment on her face.

Your wife, in fact, takes that little snear of distate that is still there (twitching on your own features without you even being aware of it) as a sufficient answer that also seems to meet her own opinion, if the amused little smile that you see tugging at the corner of her mouth is any indication.

And so, in search of some kind of a compromise, you move away from the suburbs and closer towards the town center.

Where you can still hear the wind hissing through the drying leaves of the trees lining the sidewalks. Where the traffic moves more smoothly and the cars take turns quietly around the town square. Unrushed. With no honking horns and no sirens. And where the air still smells fresh, and not tainted by the _stench_ of gas exhaust and rotting garbage piled up and abandoned on the sidewalks.

Where the sky can actually be _seen_ in full, and not just glimpses of it caught in between the few spaces left by the skyscrapers.

This...

This could actually _work_, you think, nodding to yourself as you look around this more centered residential zone appreasing what might become your new habitat.

The houses that you see are surprisingly _nicer_ than you expected given the suspiciously low price. And the first couple ones have you already change your mind and incline you to believe that moving in a zone like this one might actually be beneficial.

Piper, however, surprisingly so, and judging from her expression - from that little, barely visible frown that sits there between her eyebrows and the way she purses her lips, shifting them on one side of her mouth in contemplation - it seems like something might be... _missing_... from the places that the chatty real estate agent shows you.

And... You think you might know what _that_ could be...

You get your suspicions confirmed when you visit the first brownstone that is pretty near the town center and all the comforts that it provides within a walking range.

The place itself is... _Lovely_.

Really.

Enough that it catches you by surprise.

Small and intimate in its size, but not as _cramped_ as you thought it would be when you first saw it from the outside, tucked in between two other buildings.

There is a small entrance and then a more ample living room-kitchen combo with a little fireplace. An excellent light source coming from the french door leading to the small patio and... uh, look at that: hardwood floors.

It's the kind of place where a young, just-married couple would settle in, and... there is _something_ about it, about the warmth that it emanates despite it being completely empty with bare, white walls, that gives you a nice, comforting feeling tingling under your skin.

It's only when you get that further bit in, however, after having taken a general look around, that you state the only difference there is respect the other places you have visited, besides the slightly more central location.

"It has three rooms."

The others, including the couple of single-story houses in the dreaded suburbs, had only two, and they both were either too small to be anything other than a bedroom and a storage room, or simply too big to render the rent affordable.

This one, however, is...

Just of the right size to be comfortable in its space.

Your afternoon shadow with the navy blue blazer has left you to take a look on your own while she answered a call, and that's also why you feel so comfortable in voicing your... _observation_ out loud without anyone else but Piper around, who instantly blushes and breathes the most awkward little laugh at your remark, deliberately avoiding your gaze, pretending to look around the empty surroundings and bare walls, as if you hadn't already noticed that tinge of pink scalding her cheeks and that only brightens and spreads further down her neck when she starts rambling so adorably. Scrambling for an excuse that has you struggling harder by the minute to hold back the smile threatening to break through in front of such an amusing sight.

"Y-yeah, I know, but I thought that beside a study we could still use another room, you know? Turn it into another library, a yoga/meditation/recreation/guest room, or-"

"A dungeon?" You supply, smirking, unable to resist the temptation in front such an opportunity, and stopping her before she can come up with another utterly absurd excuse like... a _decorating_ room.

Teasing her has always come _so easy_

And you are absolutely _delighted_ when Piper's head snaps up, cheeks glowing into a bright red while her blue eyes glimmer and grow that tiny bit _darker_ at your suggestion.

Of course, it's _not_ the idea she had in mind.

Not that you would have believed the possible "decorating room" thing either, because even though the fucking suburbs are practically behind the corner, and you kind of are (_ugh_...) _a housewife_, there is _no way_ in hell that you'll _ever _allow yourself to end up to _that_ desperate level.

No, you wouldn't believe whatever other excuses Piper may try to assemble together at the last moment in between awkward stutters.

Especially not after seeing said room...

Small.

Cozy.

Where a single bed, a desk, a bookshelf, and a light-blue or soft green paint would match perfectly with the quiet, serene view of plant and flowers offered by the window facing the small portion of the patio outside, which resembles an actual garden in miniature; tucked away in this even-quieter corner of town.

...where a sling would fit just _perfectly_ beside the outdoor furniture that you notice arranged out there.

It's an image that your mind assembles together so clearly.

So easily.

Practically... _effortlessly._

And a part of you wonders why Piper is even trying to search for an excuse about this third room when you already both know for what- or rather for _whom _it would be used.

If you had decided to do this whole thing before you came to your... realization and acknowledged _that_ hidden desire, you would have probably gone through a bit of panic maybe. Now, however... Standing at the threshold of this empty room and seeing the (still slightly flustered) smile on Piper's face, dashed by that same hope shimmering under that endearing layer of embarrassment lingering on her features that you have elicited with your teasing... _well_...

You may not have gone through _the second_ part of the procedure yet, but there is no need for Piper to try come up with excuses when you don't need one that isn't including the reality (and the consequent new challenges) that you could be about to face in just a couple more weeks from now.

"So, it seems you like this place better. It's the patio isn't it?" The chatty real estate agent returns just when you were approaching your wife in order to reassure her after your innocent teasing.

She is still all smiles and friendly politeness, and it would be impossibly annoying if it wasn't for the fact that she is very young and most likely new on this job, trying to make a good impression without stumbling too much while using terms that are clearly a bit unfamiliar to her. Although... there might be _something else_ hiding under that mix of nervousness and excitement in the way she _looks_ at you...

Nonetheless, you find yourself nodding, still mostly absorbed by your thoughts and the clear potential that this place holds in this quiet area, and in its general intimate coziness.

So captured you are by those thoughts in fact, that you don't even notice the little smile that stretches on Piper's lips when she sees you stepping further inside the room to apprease the space and check from closer the sturdiness and locks installed on the window.

And even though you get a bit distracted by inspecting the corners for possible signs of mold, you can still hear that smile in Piper's voice when she answers the real estate agent by stating that "We'll have to think about it."

"_Oo-oh,_ of course," The young brunette hurriedly answers, masking that bit of disappointment with a reassuring smile. "I was just speaking with the landlady actually and... I just wanted to let you know that if you are truly interested in the place she would be available to drop something extra from the monthly payment for you."

It's hearing that rather _suspicious_ offer what manages to get your full attention back.

Your back stiffens up as turn around, pinning the young, unexpert real estate agent in place with a narrowed glance under which she suddenly starts squirming even more nervously.

"_Why?_" You ask, wary.

Although, you already_ know._

And it doesn't have anything to do with some possible scam or toxic mold hidden in the corners.

"I-I... _U-uh_..." The young woman stutters, breathes an awkward, embarrassed, nervous laugh that is all the confirmation you needed.

Such generosity from someone who hasn't even met you?

Your real estate agent must have mentioned _who_ you are.

_Inmate breaks out of prison to save spouse from international drug trafficker._

No matter how hard you try, the titles and pictures of newspapers that have made you sound like some kind of hero _for months_, still appear in your mind.

Just when the young brunette seems to be about to pass out or hyperventilate, Piper mercifully steps in, reaching your side and prompting you to drop the intensity of your murderous gaze by simply resting one soft hand on your shoulder and whispering a quiet, comforting "It's okay" that has the same effect of a soothing caress. Quieting the protective beast that was starting to roar from the cage within you where you keep it locked up.

"Thank you, for the offer," Piper says then, smiling politely at the real estate agent who barely dares to breathe just yet.

"It's appreciated. But we'll still have to think about it." Your wife concludes with the same polite assertiveness, taking your hand in hers and affectionately stroking your knuckles until the rest of the tension still seizing your body starts to melt away from your frame.

And this time, the only answer you receive from the young brunette is a vigorous nod, a terrified twitchy smile followed by... a harsh, audible _gulp _when she glances back up at you before excusing herself with a mumble and scrambling out once again, leaving you some more space and privacy to continue your examination of the room.

Before you do that, however, Piper dispells the heaviness that indirectly bringing up your infamous identity has caused, by grinning at you.

"You know, after that _glare_ you have given her she is probably going to recommend an additional five percent discount." She quips. And the humor in her tone, as well as that dimpled _grin _that never fails to make you feel _things_, is all you need to let go of that remaining tension that was still clinging onto your shoulders.

You release a chuckle and now that "_the threat_" is gone you are no longer on the defensive, you might actually feel a bit bad for scaring the young brunette agent out of the room like you did.

"Quite the persuasive skills you got there,_ Miss Vause,_" Piper adds, aiming for teasing but actually sounding somehow impressed.

"I don't know," You answer, deciding to take the risk and step into this little game that she has started. "My wife seems to be the only one winning every argument lately." You confess.

Piper hums and melts a bit. The blue in eyes sparkling like it always does whenever she hears you calling her your _wife_.

...such a _dork._

"And what if she really, _really_ liked this place?" The dork asks. And...

_Well..._

"In that case, I guess that we would both win." You answer, sincerely. Because there is no reason to pretend you don't like the place when you already did upon taking the very first step inside.

And you like it all the better when there is Piper's delighted smile lighting up the place and filling this particular room with even more warmth that the one seeping in through the window.

**. . .**

Still, even with both of you agreeing, and with the new, extremely advantageous settlement that the landlady has openly offered you, "thinking about it" (as well as discussing the gesture of such generosity about the rent) is what you end up doing anyway.

For two whole weeks.

You bring the subject up with your therapist and she is unsurprisingly encouraging about this decision and the fact that you and Piper have been talking about the noise issue and came to this possible solution together.

And so, with your doctor's official approval, when, at your second (and maybe even third) visit of that brownstone, that small, cozy room is still there, just like the hopeful, no-longer-so-timid little smile dancing on Piper's lips (not to mention that much brighter light sparkling in her eyes), and that same _odd_ sense of quietness that you felt the first time you saw the place... you have your answer.

**. . .**

Moving from the city (even though it is as much of a stressful ordeal as you knew it would be) turns out being... an unexpectedly _beneficial_ change for you.

In more than just one way.

It gives you focus and purpose.

The kind that makes you feel far less useless. And the fact that it has been also your choice, too, it makes you feel less powerless than how you would have felt if it were just a decision you had to... _go with._

And so, for the following weeks, while Piper spends her days working at school, you spend them by packing and getting familiar with tools before proceeding with dismounting pieces of furniture.

One afternoon Piper gets home earlier and you are _so_ focused on your current task of numbering the pieces of your closet on some write-on tape, getting it ready for when you'll dismount it tomorrow, that, incredibly so, she manages to catch you by surprise.

She makes just enough noise by deliberately stepping onto that same creaking floorboard to warn you of her presence (because she knows better than creeping up on someone suffering from PTSD) but you still startle a bit at the sound of her voice when she greets you with a rather seductive,

"Hey there, _gorgeous_."

You turn around with a little start, heartbeat spiking up. But then you actually have to smother the laugh that bubbles up in your chest when you see her there, in the doorway, leaning against the frame, with that still unpracticed smirk twitching on her lips and those _vibrant_ blue eyes of hers raking rudely _all over you_. From the old boots and cargo pants that you have chosen to wear for this kind of job - but mostly lingering on your shoulders, left exposed by the worn, torn, faded tank top clinging to your torso.

And it's a good thing that you have somehow managed to smother that laugh.

It would have tipped the balance and ruined the kind of... _potential_ that your current, unexpected setting holds.

And so you turn around for the rest of the way and greet her back by slipping into your own improvised character.

"Good evening, _ma'am._"

The drawl may be a little too much, but given the way she struggles to hold back that smile from growing into something wider at the use of that_ formal term_, you know that she definitely _doesn't _mind the choice. Instead, she looks around and says,

"You have made a lot of progress since this morning."

In her own improvisation though, there is a note of nostalgia in her voice that isn't lost on you, and that you would probably even catch more easily in her eyes when she turns around and looks towards the living room down the hall, where most of the furniture has already been numbered, dismounted and neatly set into a pile in a corner, ready to be moved in just a few more days.

But it's a detail that shifts onto the back of your mind when she steps further in and, with that same smile shifting into something far more mischievous, she adds, "I knew I wouldn't have been left disappointed by your... _many_ _skills_."

It's more the _look _that she gives you rather than the way she stresses _that_ word what has you struggle to hold back another chuckle.

You briefly duck your head and shift your mouth from one side to the other in order to regain composure before looking up at her again.

"What can I say," You shrug, faking modesty by flashing the most arrogant, cocky smile you can manage. "I've been told I'm _efficient_."

"Mh," Piper _purrs_ in confirmation. A sound that on its own is enough to make goosebumps erupt on your bare arms.

"That you are." She nods, stepping around the bed to reach you, or rather _corner you_ given the purposeful, _predatory_ look that is slowly darkening her eyes in a way that leaves your throat dry.

"Maybe you should take a break though," She adds feigning the absolutely _worst_ innocently concerned look _ever_.

"I wouldn't want to... _overtire you_."

She is playing her part exceptionally well. And the kind of effort that she is putting in this scene is exactly what ends up making you a bit suspicious - among _other _things...

Then you notice it. Just when she reaches out to tease the hem of your tank top.

That rare kind of nervousness that is making her fingers _twitchy_.

That shade of worry hiding behind the fierce shimmer in her eyes.

And as soon as you catch it in that rippling ocean of blue, you instantly realize what this must be about.

You have kept yourself busy the entire day, for the past several days, which has helped.

But you definitely _haven't_ forgotten about your appointment scheduled for tomorrow.

You are tempted to reach out and break out of the character you have slipped so easily into, in order to stroke her hair as a tender gesture of comfort and ask her if she is okay, but...

Then you realize that _this_ could be a nice, alternative way- _a diversion_ to help her get rid of some of that tension that you can _feel_ coming off her frame.

And so, when she steps closer and drops her hand from the hem of your tank top to rest it against the front of your pants instead, feeling the outline of the box cutter you forgot you had shoved into your pocket earlier, you know better than interrupt the oh so promising direction things seems to be moving towards.

Although, this time you really _can't_ fight off the urge to laugh when she steps impossibly closer and, with a sultry deep voice, she asks you if,

"Is it a spirit level the one you got in your pants or you are just happy to see me?"

For how humorous this alternative of that old quip is however, the chuckle that rises from within your chest gets caught in your throat on it's way out when her hand inches closer to your crotch, until she is cupping your sex in her palm.

And just like that, that laugh that gets choked in the back of your throat turns into a low, guttural groan that grows and takes that demanding edge when Piper's hand gives an emphatic, purposeful, tortuous _squeeze_.

Your eyes flutter shut at the unexpected spike of direct pleasure that such gesture elicits from your body - which has always responded so much more strongly and unabashedly under her touch - and when you blink them open again, you are met with an even wider grin digging twin dimples on your wife's cheeks.

"You better not start something you can't finish." You warn her, your voice dropping uncharacteristically deep, and you _revel_ in the way she shudders in response to the thread of danger laced into your words and that is also probably darkening your eyes, too.

"I _always _finish what I start." She answers, so purposefully, as if the tone in her voice paired with that look wasn't already so _damn_ promising on its own.

Your throat bobs as you swallow in an attempt to regain as much of your usual composure as you can with her hand still resting _there_.

"I still haven't boxed our toys, you know." You inform her, trying to sound nonchalant as you slip out of character only for a moment to throw her such a blatant suggestion. And this time you _do_ laugh when her eyes brighten up and darken at the same time, sparkling with mischief.

"You interested?" You ask, fighting off a smirk, because that look is confirmation enough for you. But you still revel in the polite, pleading, submissive "_yes, please_" that slips past her lips like a needy whisper, and in the way she presses her body against yours to emphasizes even more strongly _how much_ she wants you.

A need that burns all the brighter, in all its fierceness when you lean forward to kiss her and she responds, melting against your front as if she was waiting for nothing else but the soft, sweet, warm pressure of your lips against hers. Finally welcoming her at home.

**. . .**

You love her like this.

Well, you love her _regardless_, actually.

But there is _something_ so deeply satisfying in reducing her into this shivering, twitching, sweating, panting _mess_ and being the one and only reason for her generally disheveled state and the broad smile splitting her face in half with pure contentment.

Nothing else swells you with an equal sense of fulfillment (and more than a little bit of pride, too actually) than seeing her like _this_.

You take the chance to admire her as she recovers.

Not wanting to overstimulate her though, after a moment longer where your gaze may have been lingering on the glistening, swollen spot between her legs, where her outer lips are parted by the thick shaft that is still buried deep inside of her - you draw your hips back; slowly, carefully slipping out her.

She whines and whimpers in protest, willing her inner muscles to squeeze in a vain attempt to keep you inside of her, but the chuckle that swells within your chest in front of such sight and those soft noises of discontentment dies in your throat when, as soon as you slip completely out of her, Piper manages enough coordination to reach out and grab one of your hands with her shaky one, bringing it back to her hot, slick core.

And once again, the sound rising from your chest turns into yet another deep, guttural groan.

She is _so _invitingly_ warm_. So delightfully _slippery_. Her clit _throbs_ against your palm, and when - unable to resist the temptation - you slip your fingers inside her still-stretched opening, her inner walls clench oh so _exquisitely_ around you, as if you were the missing piece that she has been longing for.

You watch her as she arches off the bed and tosses her head back when you hook your fingers over _that spot _that has her shuddering, mouth falling open in a silent, breathless moan. Neck craned and glistening. That thick cord of straining muscle _begging_ for the touch of your lips, for the teasing bite and scrape of your teeth.

Your mouth waters at the prospect of tasting that sweet saltiness, and you don't have to resist the urge to lean forward.

...but you should have known better that - for how authentic her reactions to your touch are - she has been masterfully used it as _bait_, to bring you impossibly closer to her and hold you firmly in place by firmly locking her legs around you.

Her eagerness is what tears an unsurprised laugh from your chest.

Because _of course_...

"You thirsty little thing..." You tease her, clicking your tongue in pretended disappointment as you pull back from that sweet, safe space that you have claimed as your refuge against the crook of her neck, grinning mischievously down at her. "You haven't had enough yet, have you?"

It's a rhetorical question, of course.

And she doesn't look in the least abashed when she simply shakes her head, confirming your obvious assumption. And while, in part, you are a bit disappointed that you haven't gotten the chance to see that flush of exertion currently tinging her cheeks brighten with that endearing drop of embarrassment, you can _hardly_ complain when those deep blue eyes both sparkle and _darken_ at once with the same fierce desire that you caught inside them earlier.

You get so mesmerized in watching how the light into those endless pools changes, that you don't even anticipate the move that has her taking advantage of the new position (and of your temporary distraction) to flip you over.

For the second time, you get caught off guard, as the gasp that slips past your lips at the lightspeed movement suggests.

She surprises you with such boldness, and not in a bad way at all despite your unfamiliarity with this position.

You don't even try to fight back for dominance as you usually tend to do, or even teasingly warn her about the risks of what sudden altitude changes can do to a bottom, because you are still enchanted by that dark, piercing, lustful gaze.

You just... _let her_. Because, after all, having her on top doesn't change the fact that is still a needy bottom. And besides the fact that you absolutely revel in having the chance to appreciate the delightful sight that she is like this, you do love to indulge her and give her that illusion of control she seems to be after right now.

You know what it is.

From what such need is born.

You have been experiencing it as well during the past few days. Hell, probably even _weeks_, actually.

Those... jittery nerves that (just like the emotions originated from the thought) have been fluttering all around you whenever your mind brought you back to the appointment at the clinic and _what_, specifically, is going to happen there, _tomorrow_.

You have been busy for the entire day though, and maybe, you got particularly busy on purpose not to think about the final step of the procedure and the possible outcomes.

You should probably _talk_ about it.

But it seems... premature, in a way.

And if _this_ is what she needs in order get a better hold on her wildly fluttering emotions, if _this_ is how she _needs you_ right now, then you are more than happy to oblige and use the circumstance in whatever way you can to soothe her jittery nerves and quiet down all the doubts and fears that spring from that thought.

So you let her ride you, while you decide the pace and choose the depth. Setting it deliberately much slower and gentler than it was earlier- when you strapped at her request. Taking the chance to thoroughly _feel her_ \- and savor the delightful way her soft, ridged walls feel as they ripple around you - just like she takes the occasion to _feel you_. Like you weren't able to feel _each other_ before.

The slow, thorough ministration drags a much sweeter, nonetheless tremendously intense orgasm out of her that has her shaking on top of you.

Her blunt nails dig into your flesh as her inner muscles clench and spasm around you. Clutching tightly around your fingers as her body sags forward. Boneless. Finally, _utterly spent_.

You catch her and keep her safely balanced there. Leaned against your chest.

But it still takes minutes before she is ready to give up the pressure of your fingers.

And when she does, lifting her hips to dismount you, this time _you_ are the one who mourns the loss of that delightful, clinging, slick heat with a whined groan of disapproval. But... the look that you find on her face when she pulls back from the crook of your neck now that the haze of lust is fading, allows you to see the concern that you had sensed, and that has been laying for all this time underneath that wonderfully fierce spark of desire.

"You okay?" You just decide to ask her at last, because no matter how you think she feels, you need to hear it from her.

Her eyes instantly soften, and the smile that curls on her lips as soon as you ask her that simple question, speaks of the same endless adoration that you find in the way she looks at you.

"Yes..." She answers, easily, sincerely.

_And yet..._

"I just..." Her voice trails off then as she worries her bottom lip and ducks her head in an attempt to shield the emotions that you have already seen emerging from the depth of those blue eyes.

Before doubts can get a firmer grasp on her however, you reach out and tilt her chin up, gently urging her to meet your gaze.

"It's going to be okay." You tell her, and even if your voice may sound a bit raw with exertion and tense with the same nervousness that you yourself try to smother as it crawls its way up from that place deep in your belly where you have pushed it down, the smile that curls so easily on your lips as you say those words to her, is probably what helps you in conveying even more strongly such assurance, and what - ultimately - succeeds in making Piper's frame relax all over again, just like her worried expression does.

And when you lean in to seal that promise with a long, sweet, soft kiss that has none of the urgency and hunger of the ones you have shared earlier, whatever was left of that tension melts right off her as she takes all of the comfort that you are offering her.

It's gentle and soft.

The proud, fierce sentiment in it makes your heart throb and stutter out of its rhythm, stealing your breath away.

But it doesn't remain so gentle.

Not that you believed for _a second_ that it was going to maintain its relative innocence with the both of you there, still naked, glistening with sweat and _other_ sticky fluids.

Piper doesn't provide you with an answer.

Instead, she scatters kisses down your body and urges you to lay down, removing the leather harness that is still there, expertly strapped to your hips, and spending the next half an hour with her head between your legs. Devotedly proving to you that she doesn't need her voice to tell you how grateful she is for those few, simple words of reassurance.

No one else has ever been able to drag the kind of orgasms that Piper manages to tear from your body. And you know that for how wickedly talented her mouth is, it has nothing to do with the sentiment that you share and that is the one supreme reason that makes you respond so intensely to her touch.

Leaving your body buzzing for several, exquisitely long minutes afterwards. Eventually forcing you to reach out with one shaky hand to gently nudge her away from your overstimulated sex.

She pouts, and you laugh. Brushing the pad of your thumb across the glistening, clear, uh... _smudge_ left there on her chin.

"Come here," You tell her then. And your voice sounds so rough and scratchy that you barely recognize it as your own as you open your arms and invite her to snuggle against your side.

There is no need for you to repeat yourself a second time that Piper eagerly scoots closer, laying her head on that same place that rests between your chest and shoulder.

The sun was already starting to set while you were... _busy_ taking pleasure from each other, and now, all there is left of it, is just that final shaft of light filtering into your mostly bare bedroom. Filling the emptiness of the space with a nice, comforting, warm red-orange glow.

"Are you going to miss this place?"

It's a legitimate question, you think, the one that prompts you to break the pleasant silence of your afterglow.

You look around the empty walls, the closet that you are going to dismount tomorrow morning, the boxes piled there in the corner beside the window facing the street.

She has been here since before you got out of prison, and you definitely wouldn't blame her if she had developed some kind of... fondness... for this apartment.

It's been her home for almost three years, after all. And within another week, you are going to leave this place definitively.

Something like guilt starts stirring in your stomach when you realize that the reason why are leaving the city is because you are struggling to deal with the noise that it generates.

But that sense of guilt doesn't have a chance to grow into something even more uncomfortable that you feel Piper shake her head in negative.

"No..." She answers.

It's barely a whisper, soft enough to not disrupt the pleasant quietness wrapping this blissful, peaceful moment, and yet firm. Devoid of the bulky weight of doubt.

And to further reinforce such an honest answer, she snuggles further against your side, pulling you that tiny bit closer to herself before picking her head up and planting a kiss right above your left breast, where, underneath skin and bone, the muscle caged in there flips and flutters and _throbs_ at that simple, yet profoundly meaningful gesture.

It's a rule that has always stood for you, too.

When you were young and traveling.

Hell, even when you were locked up in a fucking prison made of cold cement walls and steel bars.

Wherever you are or have been, whether it was a dreamlike bungalow on a private beach, or a bunk where the last thing you could have was any resemblance of privacy, as long as she is with you... that's all the home you really need.

With that thought in mind and a smile curling on your lips upon reaching that matter-of-fact realization, you pull the covers over your naked bodies and dismiss the noise of the traffic running on the street below the apartment by focusing on the calming, deeply reassuring sound of Piper's breathing evening out as she (aided by the soothing motion of your fingers lightly skimming up and down her spine) quickly drifts off into a nap.

But not before mumbling a sleepy "We have to try again this handyman/lonely-horny housewife role play thing one day..."

You chuckle. Unimpressed by the "request" but also kind of amused by it.

"Sure..." You answer softly, tugging her closer and turning just enough to plant a kiss on her brow.

**. . .**

You told her the truth.

When you said that you wanted to try this you may have been understandably nervous and wavering in between uncertainty, but you _truly _meant it.

All doubts aside, you haven't thought about backing off.

...you could still do it, in fact.

But the thought of actually _doing it_ will never thicken enough to be concretized into reality. Because even though your resolution doesn't stop the sense of dread about fucking everything up (something that, in your previous life, used to be your specialty) or from having second thoughts about all of this at the last moment - every time you remember that look of profound disappointment that you saw shutting off that warm light in Piper's eyes, you know that if you'd back off now, you'll probably regret it till the end of your days.

You don't think you could stand being the reason that has turned that bright, fiercely flickering flame of hope into that cold, lifeless shadow.

It's there even now.

That... _gorgeous_ spark.

Shining through the understandable signs of nervousness (and perhaps even fear) that you notice while the doctors get ready to start the final step of this entire sci-fi in vitro process, or - more simply put - the implantation of your fertilized egg in her uterus.

You haven't spent that much time selecting a... uh, _donor_.

The winner was some guy which name was a string of numbers, who was described in a column as Caucasian with blonde hair and blue eyes, _tall_\- and who also had no health issues or cases of the most common, genetic diseases running in the family.

And _that_ has been what has declared the donor a winner.

And so now here you are.

It's... a bit surreal actually.

Kind of fascinating, really. If you don't think about that bit where it is _your_ egg the one that has been fertilized with the sperm of nameless stranger which is... _ugh_. A shiver races up your spine. Because you _really don't_ want to think about it.

Piper, however... Well... As expected, in an attempt to control her own nervousness, last night, after your... passionate session of lovemaking that has managed in soothing her, has been gushing with a much more unrestrained amazement about the entire process and general marvels of what the combination between modern medicine and technology can do nowadays. Which has been... quite an entertaining look to witness.

What is pretty absurd, however, is that you seem to be living all of this much more calmly than you weren't expecting to feel on this big day.

But that's good for more than one reason. The most important of all being keeping Piper's jittery nerves settled.

Surprisingly so, (or maybe not) all it takes for her to feel more at ease while laying down on yet another gynecologist exam bed with her legs spread wide open and a doctor sitting in between, _probing_ her - is your presence.

Just... being here with her.

Holding her hand for the whole duration of the procedure.

Which seems to last for a short infinity and a stuttered heartbeat at the same time.

But you know that what really distorts your sense of time, are the emotions battling within you.

That mix of trepidation, fear, of generally wandering into the unknown and also... that odd _buzzing_ feeling that has your racing heart swell with... an equally odd sense of excitement that you, with all your eloquence, are unable to properly describe.

"There. All done."

It's just when you hear that announcement stating the end of the procedure that you finally shake out from the thick haze you have plunged into, blinking your eyes into focus and watching as the doctor that has been doing the implantation, sets the electronic instruments aside stands up from between Piper's legs, taking off her gloves and surgical mask, revealing the smile that has been hiding underneath.

It still takes a couple of seconds for you to re-emerge from that vicious vortex of swirling thoughts, to tear your gaze away from the gray monitor where you have been "following" the progress, but when you finally become a bit more aware, enough to properly register that the procedure is _actually_ concluded already, you almost do a double take, looking between the doctor and Piper, whose deep blue eyes have widened with so many emotions at once at that announcement stating a whole new possible reality that still has to catch up with you.

"That... _that's it_?" You ask as soon as you get a firm enough hold on yourself to make your own voice cooperate.

Apparently though - luckily - you are not the only one who is left bewildered by the relative _swiftness_ of the procedure.

"S-so now what?" Piper also chides in, her nerves emerging once again, making her sound worried, yet excited and... a bit incredulous all at once.

The doctor's smile stretches wider as she invites Piper to lay back down on the exam bed for a few more minutes, offering the most insufferably obvious answer that you (under the various layers of surprise and disbelief) were both expecting (_dreading,_ actually) to hear.

"Now,_ you wait._"

**. . .**

Yeah.

_Riiight_.

If there is a term in the dictionary worthy of having Piper's name and picture attached next to it as a definition, it would be: _impatient_.

She could be used as an example for its superlative, actually.

Whether she is tossing and writhing and pleadingly breathing your name in hope that you'll _finally_ stop using your fingers (or tongue, depends) to tease her and just push her over the edge already, or she is expecting news about some important test results, patience would be the last virtue found anywhere near her.

Waiting around has _never_ been Piper's thing.

Although you know that she might actually _enjoy_ the way you test her (perhaps even torture her a little) in _that way _during your most intimate, scorchingly passionate moments.

In the end, however, whether you wait around for it or not, in between the moving, duties, therapist sessions and all of that - time, days, _weeks_ still pass by no matter what.

Piper may be impatient, yes, but you actually have to admit that she has grown slightly more patient and less restless over the years. Ever since your prison-time actually.

And you can't help but wonder if maybe it has been working with kids what has given her a whole new kind of perspective and forced her to deal with such trait; indirectly persuading her to find another approach to obtain the best result and trust from her problematic bunch of students...

All you know for sure (which is something that has become even more obvious to you after having witnessed that scene in the library with that kid) is that Piper clearly, simply _adores_ working with kids. The more troubled the better.

She is... good at it.

Understanding and devoted to them.

So much in fact that she keeps going even when the most _horrific_ kind of stomach flu affects the institute, spreading through the entire school district, and decimates the classes.

It gives her an opportunity to replace yet another unfortunate literature teacher that has fallen victim of the virus, and supervise what has survived of an entire class.

For how excited she is at the prospect however, it doesn't last for long that whatever virus seems to have spread through the entire district catches up with her as well.

It happens at the _worst_ possible time _ever,_ too.

Because _of course_ it does.

Right when you are in the middle of the whole moving thing.

Luckily, you already have running water and power connection, and Piper's brother has helped you unboxing the essentials and in moving some of your furniture in place, otherwise the situation would look kind of apocalyptic, really, and, usually, you don't tend to dramatize.

But yeah, it isn't pretty.

You abandon your task of repainting, reassembling closets and unboxing, in order to take care of your wife - who left for work this morning with her stomach already being a little upset (blaming it on the nervousness about her second class lesson, and on the extra cup of coffee she's had because of such nerves, which she should have known better) only to return home three hours later. Because she is a stubborn mule that just _won't_ listen to you.

_"Ugh..."_

It's a rather pitiful, grossed out groan the one that she releases as she slumps against the side of the bathtub, and it robs you of all the joy you might have taken if you voiced that _"I told you not to go"_ that has been itching on your tongue for the past couple of hours and, especially, during the past several minutes she has spent with her head in the toilet. Which is an image that kind of reminds you _of_-

"This brings back memories." She promptly comments, as if reading your own thoughts.

"Please, at least tell me you didn't puke in front of a bunch of people this time," You chuckle, rubbing circles on the small of her back while she rinses the sourness from her mouth with mouthwash.

After she spits and flushes the toilet one more time, she wipes at her mouth with the towel that you hand her over and then turns around, looking at you with teary eyes and that _pout_ that should be declared illegal given the unfair effect it _always_ has on you.

"I was _so_ looking forward to go to school today and get into my first literature lesson, Al."

It's not something that is often heard, at least not the first part (not from students, and definitely not from certain teachers that have lost all of the passion they once had for this job) and you can't help but chuckle in front of that look of disappointment and that whiny voice, which also refrains you from asking if - given how much things have worsened during the past couple of days - there actually _were _enough students left for her to hold a proper lesson that wouldn't have turned into a solid hour of chatting and copying the homework for the next period.

Nonetheless, it's such an adorable dork the one you married.

A stubborn as hell dork that you love with fiercerness, even though sometimes she _really_ does challenge your patience.

"I know babe," You simply decide to comfort her with a soft smile at last, unwilling to add to the reasons that are making her so miserable right now, handing her over the glass containing the swirl of apple juice and water that you have mixed up to keep her hydrated like you did _that time_ in Indonesia, trying very hard not to let that smile curled on your lips to twitch into a smirk as that particular memory resumes in the back of your mind, where Piper had ended up... _entertaining_ an entire village in the most humiliating way.

"But hey, who knows," You add, gleefully, in an attempt to cheer her up. "Maybe next month the cafeteria will serve some of the slop they used to feed us in prison and you'll get your second chance when most of the teachers and students will get the runs." You quip, and this time, you do allow yourself to smirk, but... It instantly drops when you see Piper lowering the glass after taking a sip, and looking at you with an expression you can't instantly decipher, but that _surely_ doesn't show _anything_ remotely close to humor. Making you realize that you must have said something _very_ wrong.

Her tired, exhausted eyes circled by dark shadows widen and-

"What?" You ask her, and the way you swallow makes you sound significantly more apologetic and nervous, instead of curious about _what_ you could have _possibly_ said and done to get her eyes to widen and her entire expression change like _that_ in a heartbeat.

Even her cheeks regain color.

And suddenly, the general sickness that has been affecting her for the entire afternoon actually seems to vanish into nothing as she springs on her feet and rushes out of the bathroom with the same urgency she has rushed in barely five minutes ago to empty her stomach for the third time.

"Pipes, hey! Where are you going?" You almost trip over your own feet when you follow her out with the same rush, barely refraining from asking her if you have said something wrong, because in between the moving and general stress from work, and nervousness about the responsibility for her new assignment, and the whole nightmare of bureaucracy standing behind a change of address, her mood has been _all over_ the place lately.

Not that you can blame her though, really, but you doubt that you'll be met with _any_ kind of comprehension if you dared to ask her such question right now.

So you just... _watch_ as she hurries into the new, still mostly bare living room of your lovely brownstone, to reach the briefcase that is still sitting there, on the kitchen island stool, exactly where she left it along with her jacket and blazer when she came back earlier this afternoon.

"What's going on?"

You ask as she opens her bag and rummages through the content in a way that has your confusion shift more and more towards actual concern.

"I'm late." She simply states, distractedly, and _that_ is an answer which elusiveness leaves you frowning.

"No, you're _not_." You tell her, firmly, firstly translating her answer as her willingness to return to work when you see her pick up the blazer.

"You aren't going back to school." You state, stepping closer, snatching the jacket off her grasp, ready to fight her on this.

"Not today at least." You insist.

She may be stubborn.

But you _know_ when to put your foot down.

Especially whenever it is something concerning her health and safety.

But Piper does not only seem completely unconcerned by your no-bullshit warning tone, she actually doesn't even seem to _hear_ you as she stops her relentless rummaging and pulls her agenda out of the briefcase.

She opens it with shaky hands, hurriedly flipping through the pages, which only increases your confusion to a whole new level.

"What are you..."

But your voice trails off, and the question dies in your throat when you see her trembling fingers skipping the pages... _backwards_.

Oh.

_Oh..._

_Fuck._

Only _then_ realization dawns upon you.

_Realization..._

Which is the same expression you have witnessed and couldn't recognize when you saw it shaping Piper's features but a minute ago in the bathroom.

And suddenly, for the second time in your life, the world relents, and spins awfully slowly.

Time stretches into an infinitely long second into which an equally infinite amount of emotions collide within you at once.

Condensing into one harshly stuttered heartbeat.

It's sharp and strikingly unexpected.

Utterly overwhelming.

And suddenly, it feels like all the air surrounding you gets sucked out from the room. Leaving you there, frozen in place. Unmoving. And as your heart resumes beating and starts pounding double time and your head swims in between the million and one thoughts that begin swirling inside it, there is also the irrational one that has you believe that _this _is what must feel like surviving with no atmosphere; just... floating around in the vacuum of space.

It lasts only for a second, though.

Because then it feels more like you imagine it would have felt tripping into one of those ancient, Medieval swinging-log traps.

A blow of an epic, mighty force knocking right against the center of your chest. From _the inside._

Your eyes burn, but you can't even blink away from where they remain fixed on the date of Piper's agenda, marked by a red dot a little bit more than a month ago.

A month and three weeks to be precise. And you would even wonder _how _in _hell_ your brain is still able of doing math right now if you currently weren't frozen in place by the thousands of emotions transfixing you.

Seven weeks.

Which was before you moved.

Before you went through a certain, delicate _procedure..._

You have _no_ idea how you manage to tear your gaze away from that page and lift it. All you know is that as soon as you glance up, the first sight you are met with is the one of Piper's deep blue eyes stare right back at you.

Wide.

Unblinking.

And...

_Glistening._

"That's..." Your voice might even have mercifully decided to assist you, but the tumult of thoughts and emotions swirling relentlessly inside you make you so dizzy that you find yourself unable to complete what you don't even know whether the one you are asking is either a question, or if you are just trying to make a statement.

"Y-you are..."

All you know, all you can hear besides the frantic thrum of your heartbeat, is the incredulity seeping into those few stuttered words as they trip over your tongue and _stumble_ just as awkwardly and aimlessly from your lips.

Piper's gaze darts just as incredulously between you and the pages of her agenda, double checking with still trembling fingers, but... There is no mistake.

"I have skipped my period for two months."

It's what she states eventually, dumbly, stunned. Yet, somehow, despite the way she barely mumbles those words, she still manages to sound oh so strikingly clear.

And it's also then that you feel _it._

That... _thing_ that has your stomach cave on itself and flutter similarly to how you were used to feel whenever taking off or starting a descent with an airplane.

In the moment Piper's gaze lifts once again and those blue eyes lock with yours, your heart comes to a sudden, crashing halt against the back of your sternum right before leaping and stuttering and swelling within your chest in front of that look, upon hearing that incredulous, wet, soft, breathy laugh that slips from Piper's lips.

"O-oh my god," She half gasps, half exclaims as realization sinks for all the way in. Violently kicking down the sturdy barrier of doubt that she had erected as a justifiable, understandable defensive mechanism in order to not let her hopes up too soon.

That same incredulity might even linger, but it soon leaves space to the much thicker reality condensing with all its weight. And suddenly, from that elated, overjoyed look that has made your heart do flips within the cage that is barely holding it contained - Piper's expression changes _entirely_.

Her eyes widen, growing large with plain and simple, unmistakable _shock._

"Oh my god." She repeats as a whole new devastating wave of emotions crashes into her, and you can only watch, frozen in place - astounded as you still are - as it submerges her.

Her throat bobs when she swallows, _hard._

Seeming to fight off another heaving, this one caused by something else entirely than what you are beginning to suspect _wasn't_ the stomach flu that she thought she had caught at school and that has gone viral in the whole district.

Once again, the color that you have seen returning on her cheeks gets completely drained from her face. Whitening it as the sickening fear leading that horde of demons rushes ahead and sinks its claws into her.

She sways, and only then you manage to break free from whatever spell had you petrified in place.

"Hey," You rush closer at her side and hold her up. "It's okay, I got you."

It doesn't even strike you at the moment how meaningful those words sound, or how much you mean them as they seem to rush out straight from your subconscious. And neither Piper seems to realize as much. She does allow you to help her regain her balance however, before turning in your arms to face you, looking at you with those big blue eyes so wide and scared that almost freeze you back in place.

"I-I don't think I'm ready for this." She confesses.

And there is a pang that resonates from somewhere deep within your chest.

Before you can even try to understand what it is thought-

"Oh my god, what was I_ thinking_?!"

You would probably find such display a bit entertaining actually, because it wouldn't be the first time that your wife would give signs of her inconsistency. But witnessing as it emerges from this topic, from this... new reality that truly has to sink completely into you yet, makes the entire display the_ opposite_ of amusing.

Especially when Piper tears herself away from where you have been gently holding her shaky frame in your arms.

And just like that, with the sudden gap of distance, the world- _your world_ \- which is already limited to the living room of your new home and includes just you and Piper, tips off balance and spins out of its axis.

Falling out of alignment so suddenly and without enough forewarning to grant you sufficient time to brace yourself for the impact that comes when Piper looks at you with those wide blue pools rippling with fear and with her voice suddenly firm and harsh, asks you "Why did you let me do _this_?!"

The harshness of those words, of that _accusation_ echo in your still bare living room, robbing you of whatever trace of humor that might have been clinging in you upon witnessing a display of inconsistency that you haven't witnessed in a while.

That foreign, tingling, _pleasant_ warmth that you had felt swelling inside your chest all the rest of the emotions that have broken loose, turns into sharp stalactites of ice that grow out from the seeds of doubts and fear scattered within you.

You tense up, and your own gaze hardens, growing just as cold as those spikes piercing your insides.

"_Excuse me?_"

Because either you heard her wrong - which (unfortunately) you _didn't_ even though given the way your heart starts pounding in your ears, rendering you almost deaf to anything else, is not a possibility that has been _so_ easy to discard - or she just openly accused you and _blamed you_ for being the reason behind her current... _situation._

A situation that she has been hoping for and that has put you through quite an intense, troubling self-discovery voyage and then, into the whole procedure when you couldn't fathom denying this to her.

By presenting her that question, you give her the opportunity to backtrack, to think about what she just asked you.

And there is no describing the horrid, _awful_ feeling that flares inside you when she just repeats herself and accuses you all over again.

"I'm not ready for this! How _could you _let me do this?!"

It's probably the use of the verb "_let_" what makes you snap.

Or maybe it's the _look_ that she gives you. Devoid of all the emotions but fear and doubt and blame; all inflamed by that unmistakable _spark_ of anger that lights her up like a match dropping on a pool of gasoline.

That one is _the last_ emotion you thought she would feel upon finding out what you _just_ found out.

Whatever it is, that look blinds you from seeing how much those vicious emotions are actually affecting her.

Because, after all you have been through, after all the time and the amount of effort and work that you have done on yourself to come to the slow realization that you actually _wanted_ this - fears or not - just like Piper does- or _did_...

It's the last straw.

"How could _I_ let you do this?"

Your gaze grows just as fierce as hers. The roaring fire in it melting the ice that has paralyzed you in place, making your insides _simmer_ as your tone sharpens, becoming just as cutting as it must be to spare with her own.

It's her second (and probably last) chance.

But... she doesn't relent. As a great part of you already _knew _she wasn't going to.

The whole thing gets dangerously out of hand in a second and you end up fighting like you haven't fought in _years_.

And it's awful for so many reasons you can't even keep up with.

And for you, it's... too much to handle at once.

Piper's panic, her fears, her doubts, her accusations... they all collide with your own and overwhelm you into a claustrophobic state that forces you to do the unthinkable.

You leave just when she seems to be finally coming back to her senses after her infinite, unfair, accusatory rant.

But this time _you_ are the one who is far too gone to listen when she cries and begs you not to leave in the moment she sees you grabbing your jacket and heading for the front door.

Your hand is shaking with the anger and _hurt_ roiling inside you when you reach for the handle and open it, slamming it behind and storming off before Piper can catch up with you and before your own tears - a mix of hurt and anger and that..._ something else_ that you haven't quite figured out _what _it might be, but that you felt stirring as a tingling warmth behind your sternum when you found out about her... monthly delay and what it meant - can tumble down your cheeks.

It is only when you are outside and slipping into the darker shadows offered by the rainy night that you allow them to fall.

The pouring rain may even wash them away, but the wound that Piper's sharp words have left, cutting deep within you, keep bleeding on itself.

It's something you should have gotten used to, you reason, inwardly scoffing and shaking your head in a self-reprimanding way.

Because her love and affection have always burnt with fierceness. But you also know that that's the exact same reason why she has always been able to hurt you worst.

The wind blows harsh and cold, bringing the first bite of the approaching winter. And maybe, if it wasn't for the way it howls in your ears, or for the incessant, harsh drumming of the heavy rain and the thunders echoing in the distance, you would have perhaps even heard the anguished scream of your wife calling for you before you round the corner that takes you out of her sight.

Chasing off the very same demons you thought you had outrun.

And getting swallowed further into a night as dark as the thoughts and fears closing around you.

* * *

**There. Piper did it again... But what better way than balancing the previous mushy fluff-fest chapter if not adding a bit of drama by having the old Piper Chapman sparking through and sticking both feet in her mouth with panic upon finding out about her situation. Oh well... Nothing new there :) So don't fret guys... Alex may understandably need some alone-time. But Piper tends to come to her senses... Usually. **_**Eventually **_**:P**


	4. Chapter 4

Hi everyone!

A tiny bit late, I know, but real life is keeping me_ busy. _Thank you for still being so patient guys :) It's _hugely _appreciated, really. Also thank you so much for all the nice words you left in your comments, I'm glad you are enjoying this ride-into-the-unknown I have decided to take Vauseman into :D

Anyway, here's the new chapter :)

Enjoy

* * *

Given the dramatic exit that your fiery, heated fight has ultimately pushed you towards, you can't help but find that the current capricious weather fits just perfectly with the situation and your generally gloomy, somber mood.

The fresh air provides your burning lungs the relief you have been yearning for, but the sudden, harsh bite of cold does nothing to numb the stinging pain and the simmer of anger left by Piper's cutting words.

Tiny little razors that have reduced you to shreds. With the same unforgiving sharpness left by papercuts. Unlike those, however, they haven't limited to slice the surface.

Instead, just like the shard of glass that you have grasped in your fist that night, the damage of those blades has reached far deeper, cutting right through those many layers of skin and flesh, of muscle and tendons, getting closer to the bone. Scaping it and leaving indentation marks. And tonight you didn't have enough adrenaline in your system to sedate your nerve endings.

No, tonight you felt every bit of that agonizing pain.

_You never wanted this._

Having those words, That... half-truth... torn from that hidden, vulnerable place of your subconscius and being brought up from under that veiled surface and _spat back_ at you like _that_, is what has caused the most damage; like poisonous bite you can feel the venom coursing through your veins and spreading all over your body. Corroding you from the inside.

_You never wanted this._

Those words keep echoing in your head, throbbing even more painfully within the sore, burning cavity of your chest.

It's almost like a bomb has exploded in there. Leaving shrapnels lodged in the most tender, vulnerable places that have you wince with a whole new kind of pain when you try to extract them.

Because Piper was _right_.

It's true that you _didn't _want it.

Or, at least, that's what you thought... Before you bravely dared to dig deeper and found the real answer waiting for you right into your most painful memory; when you were watching the life drain from the only person that has ever really mattered to you, from the one woman you have truly loved with everything you are, kneeling onto the dirty floor of an abandoned warehouse and powerlessly watching as it turned crimson.

_Why did you let me get through with this?!_

A nauseating mixture of angst and anger from those memories and those unfair accusations start swirling and roiling in your stomach, until you can taste the sourness of acid in the back of your throat. And when you attempt to swallow that feeling down, you grow all the more conscious of the knot that has also decided to lodge itself right there.

It's driving you insane.

And replaying those accusations over and over again is not helping in providing you with an answer you aren't aware that you are actually, unconsciously, looking for.

It's like walking in circles. Not so different than how your own feet have been making you walk around the neighborhood of a still unfamiliar town for the past... you don't even know how long it has been since you stormed off, but you do know that you are still overwhelmed by the need to blow off the steam rising within you before that raging, acid fire can blaze with the same destructive force of a nuclear core and melt your insides. Turning you entirely into a radioactive, _poisonous_ pile of smoke and ashes.

And aimlessly wandering under the pouring rain is doing poorly to tame that threat of an imminent fusion.

As your thoughts carry you away in so many different directions at once, splitting your mind, eventually, you find yourself hailing a cab and crossing the bridge. Heading straight back into the city.

Suddenly seeking for that very same chaos from where you fled and that has been driving you insane night after night for _months_.

Because maybe that will help in swallowing the tumult of emotions and thoughts rampaging relentlessly inside you.

And... Maybe your current state is also the reason why you don't even remember giving the address to the taxi driver, but you know that you must have.

Even though you'd rather not think about why the hell, of _all _the places in the city, your subconscious has decided to bring you _here_.

Right where it all started...

**. . .**

The place hasn't changed much in fifteen years.

It is, in fact, pretty much the same.

Mostly frequented by young-ish, latest-twenty/early-thirty people. Not pretentious. Buzzing with nice, tasteful indie rock music playing quietly enough in the background to be heard while, at the same time, allowing the few patrons scattered around on the tables to enjoy a conversation along with their drinks.

The drastic change of temperature has your glasses fog up, compelling you to take them off as soon as you walk in, half-drenched by the rain that is pouring even harder here in this side of the city where the clouds of the real storm seem to be actually gathered more densely.

You shake the excess of those cold drops from your jacket before putting your glasses back on and heading straight for the counter, as if you are used to coming here all the time. And not like you just walked in after more than a decade.

The fog that is still there gathered on your lenses and partially clouding your vision only aids in rendering this entire scenario all the more surreal. Almost like stepping into an old memory.

The one of a previous lifetime, in fact.

And despite the... strangeness of finding yourself inside this bar after all these years, there is no ignoring the sense of melancholy that comes attached to such oddness in the moment you get further in, slowing down your purposeful steps, suddenly feeling a bit self-conscious as you slowly become fully aware of _actually _being _here_.

The force that such realization has as it finally reaches you and collides with your consciousness, is not so violent to overwhelm you or compel you to turn around and leave. But you still feel somehow hesitant before you simply decide to take a seat on one of the stools there at the counter, and the first thing you notice as you do so and glance around to take in the surroundings, is that even though the walls are painted of a different color, now displaying an intricate, far more modern design, and the tables, as well as the chairs, have been changed and re-arranged, the bar top is still the same.

Sturdy, rustic oak.

The acorn paint is starting to peel off on a few places here and there, but... those few scars of time and that generally "fashionably-worn" look just lend more character to the piece of furniture.

"What can I get you?"

You are so absorbed by what seems like a senseless string of thoughts that are actually all well intertwined with each other - in a far more profound level than you aren't able to grasp at the moment - that you don't even notice the bartender approaching you from the other side of the counter.

Your head snaps up, eyes blinking out of your stupor, and, from behind your newly clear lenses, you find a young, tattooed, blue-haired woman in her latest twenties looking at you up and down. Appreasing you with what even you in your current state can identify as a distinctive glint of amusement.

It's not like you can blame her or act defensively though.

You _must_ look like a half-drowned cat or something after all.

"Besides a towel, I mean." She quips with a playful smirk, unintentionally confirming your own assumption about the source of such amusement. And you would even probably crack a smile in response if it wasn't for how raw and tender you still feel after having had your inside wrapped by the sharp barbed wire of Piper's words, leaving cuts deep enough to reopen all your doubts and leave them bleeding profusely all over each other.

You are just waiting for the demons to re-emerge and start feasting on the fears that those open wounds have once again left exposed.

And that's probably why, overcome by the need to reduce all of that overwhelming tumult into a hushed, dazed buzz, the first answer your brain comes up with is something along the lines of a self-sabotaging_ "Bourbon, straight. Leave the bottle."_

Because even if you have to admit that walking in the rain, surprisingly so, has somehow helped in cooling you down a bit and prevent a potentially catastrophic nuclear fusion, it was _hardly_ enough to entirely dismiss the still lingering threat.

_However..._

Something holds you back from actually making such request.

You just might have had the kind of fight that would definitely require drinking yourself into a stupor in order to forget and cope with your new... _situation_. But you are not _so stupid_ to try and throw away all the work and progress you have made in the past several months in such a self-destructive way.

And it's with that thought weighing in your mind that- still somehow reluctantly though - eventually, you reduce your request to "Just... coffee, please." You mumble, and the smile that twitches for the briefest second on your lips when you glance back up at the bartender is mostly a dismissive one.

Strained.

Flashed just out of politeness that you don't care if it looks utterly insincere right now.

You don't even notice the bartender leaving, far too busy in getting once again swallowed by the swirling vortex of the restless thoughts with which your mind starts tormenting you all over again by mercilessly replaying each awful moment and every single word that has been uttered earlier during your fight.

Not even the chatting and laughing, the music and the noise of clinking glasses all around you seem to be able to distract you enough in order to break that loop. And you have no idea _why _you thought that coming back in the city, especially _here, _in _this bar _of all places, would have helped you smothering, or (at the very least) _slow down_ the relentlessness of some of those vicious emotions sparring within you, poking holes in your already tender, raw insides.

You should have known better though than trying to overpower the devastating force that your fights with Piper used to convene.

As you look down at the old, rustic, peeling bar counter again and run a hair through your damp hair, releasing a long tired breath through your nose, you can't help but think that some things just..._ never change._

"Here you go."

It's the sight of a tumbler and... an honest-to-god_ towel_ being slid in front of your line of vision what tears your attention back from the fragmented pieces of your past and redirects it into the still cracked, yet spinning present.

You blink out of your haze and glance up at the bartender with a bit of a start.

"Uh, I..." You look between the tumbler and the towel and then back up at the young, tattoed blue-haired woman. Blinking. Puzzled. "I didn't order this."

The dash of amusement that you have distractedly noticed but a minute ago shaping the young woman's features has now brightened considerably into something far more visible.

"It's on the house." She assures with a nonchalant shrug, her expression softening into a _look _that makes that thing in your stomach grow even bulkier and heavier and almost urges you to look away in discomfort.

_Compassion._

"It looked to me like you could use something a bit stronger than coffee." She comments, sympathetically, but just when that uncomfortable feeling starts to sink upon having a bartender- a complete _stranger_ \- see right through your current, disheveled state so easily, she changes tone and smiles with ease and playfulness.

"And the towel is tonight's free gadget giveaway for all the ladies." She quips, instantly and successfully dispelling the heaviness that her attentive observation left, with a joke and a friendly wink that actually manages to make your lips twitch into a brief, yet far more sincere smile.

"Thanks..." You reply eventually, gratefully, bypassing the whiskey and tentatively reaching for the small, neatly folded towel instead.

The bartender just nods and rolls one tattoed shoulder with some more of that pretended nonchalance that still doesn't fool you for one second, especially considering the way she is currently looking at you. Eyes brightened with that specific glimmer of... _curiosity._

Your stomach churns and your heart clenches with apprehension in the moment you catch the unmistakable hint of recognition in her expression.

The kind that has people looking at you through narrowed eyes and ask things like _"Have we met?"_ or even just state a tentative, yet suspicious_ "You look familiar."_ and of course, it even happened to hear that utterly _hilarious,_ shocked, wide-eyed_ "Are you famous?!"_

Almost a year since then, and yet, the event and the reason that forced you to break out of a high-security prison seems to have stuck.

_Fucking newspaper popularity,_ you curse.

Because that kind of story sprinkled with romance and heroism sales like bread.

_Pigeons. _You inwardly scoff as a spark of anger ignites within you, making the palm of your injured hand ache and sweat. You clench it into a fist.

_Aww-ing and cooing and calling your escape "romantic"._ As if it wasn't news reporting the most awful, traumatic event of your life, but as if the article that people has been reading on every newspaper of the city- hell,_ the country_ (because Kubra and his business were quite popular, after all. At an_ international_ level) was the plot of a romance novel dashed with the grand, heroic damsel-in-distress rescue. They got it so right yet_ so wrong._

After a long moment, during which you have barely allowed yourself to breathe though, that curiously narrowed look creasing the bartender's young features fades away as she - much to your_ immense_ relief - abandons her attempt to reach out for _something_ that she knows is _there_ but that is just that tiny bit out of her grasp.

She dismisses the thought and just acknowledges your mumbled thanks with a nod and a slightly drawled, friendly "Anyway, let me know if you need anything else."

She accompanies such offer by flashing you one last smile before leaving to tend to the other patrons gathered on the opposite end of the bar. And it's the awkwardness of that twitchy-timid kind of smile and the faint tinge of a blush that confirms the half-suspicion that had started forming somewhere in the back of your crowded mind; displaying the kind of interest that you would have taken delight in exploiting a decade or so ago, back when you wouldn't have thought twice about it.

When no dorky blonde had got all of your attention.

Enchanting you with a pair of clear blue eyes that reminded you of the unspoiled seas you had seen in the countless of travels that brought you in the most remote corners of the world.

A gorgeous set of long, toned legs that went on for_ days._

A bright, _dazzling,_ dimpled smile dashed with that equally endearing and attractive bit of shyness. And a marvelous, suave, contagious laugh that had your heart _throb,_ outrageously so, since the moment you managed to elicit the first one of countless from her lips.

A soft smile curls naturally on yours as you plunge back in time and get lost in that memory while distractedly towel drying your damp hair. Head half turned to your left, absently looking towards _that_ specific corner of the bar.

Right where it_ all_ started...

Slowly, gradually, the hinted smile playing on your lips drops into something far more wistful.

Because even though you now regret how things were back then when you met Piper here all these years ago, you are... very-_ deeply_ fond of that memory.

As you finish drying your hair and drop the towel on the bar, you release another long breath through your nose and then stare, through narrowed eyes, at the drink sitting before you, trying not to drive yourself further insane by adding the series of _"what if..."_ that inevitably spring from that memory.

You already have your fair amount of troubling emotions to deal with along with the demons taking advantage of your current vulnerability. There is no point in taking in consideration how things could have moved forward if you had decided to do something different back then.

And so, you blink back into focus, only to _glare _\- somehow challengingly, like in a childish staring contest - at the tumbler of aged whiskey sitting before you.

The seductive amber color invites you so temptingly to the numbness that the alcohol in it promises it's going to relieve you with.

Your hand - which, all of a sudden has started hurting and prickling all over again after_ weeks,_ maybe because of the cold or because of other, far more psychosomatic reasons you_ really_ don't have the energies to dwell on right now -_ itches_, and your fingers _twitch _with the intent to just... reach out and close around the glass.

Your lips already tingle at the prospect of sealing around the rim. Your tongue and throat preparing already for the burning bite of alcohol that you will find mingled with the spicy, slightly smokey flavor that will bring you back in time all over again.

_But..._

For how good you know it would feel like, you are also aware that the relief that that glass would offer, would just be a temporary one.

It's yet another trap set by those malicious _fiends_ that had been _waiting _for such an opportunity to strike and ambush you once again after having spent weeks lurking in the shadows you thought you had banished them into.

Your guard is dangerously low, the fight has taken out almost every bit of strength you had. It has left you wounded and bleeding, and_ they _are ready to take advantage of such vulnerability. Ready to pounce and feast on what is left of you. Like vultures ready to tear off the flesh from a carcass.

With that morbid analogy in mind, you frown down at the promise of bitterness and regret that you will find at the bottom of that glass once you'd swallow its content and slam it back down on the counter, as empty as you are most likely going to feel afterward.

_No,_ you firmly decide.

You have moved away from that taste. And you won't allow it to get a place in your newly reclaimed life. In your second chance.

Regret is not something you want to feel anymore.

It doesn't have a place in the life you have fought _so hard_ for and weren't consciously aware that you desired so ardently.

Life now tastes of almond milk coffee and ginger preserve in the morning, and in finding its spiced sweetness lingering on Piper's lips (along with some rye bread crumbs) whenever you manage to steal a kiss (or ten) in between one bite of breakfast and one sip of coffee while she gets ready to leave for work.

Life now tastes of _routine_. Which isn't dull, or the kind of nightmare that a decade ago you thought it was.

Just... normalcy filled with small precious moments of quietness that both you _and _Piper have earned and _deeply_ cherish.

_Piper..._ who you almost lost for a third time.

_Piper..._ who has broken your heart time and time again, and who also knelt before you in the cramped space of a bunker, surrounded by a half dozen of people and, with tears in her eyes, poured her heart out to you as if you were the only ones left in the world, and asked you to marry her.

_Piper_ who (much to your occasional, lingering incredulity - luckily you do have a physical reminder wrapped around your finger to assure you that it's all actually _real_ and not some prank played by your frayed mind) is now _your wife_.

...with whom you just fought like you haven't fought _in years_, and then left.

_Alone._

In your new home.

Probably freezing her butt off because in between the whirlwind that the past couple of weeks and her schedule have been like, you haven't had the occasion to properly show her how to turn on the heating system.

You just... left her there on her own.

Hormonal and scared out of her mind.

Piper.

_Your wife._

Who is _p__regnant. _

With _your child._

"Oh_ God_..."

The thought, the reminder, the _realization_ stirs within you. And if you suddenly grow so scared to feel your stomach twist on itself and your hands get sweaty just _thinking_ about _that word_, then no doubt that Piper must have felt _so _terrified that she has ended up_ panicking_ like she did; accusing you only because she wasn't as prepared to deal with this... _massive change..._ and everything that derives from it as she thought she would have been when- _if_ she would have faced this possibility. This _outcome_.

She has been struggling _so hard_ to not let her hopes up about the procedure knowing how low the percentage of success were, that she has - unconsciously - ended up convincing herself that it wouldn't have worked at all.

You can hardly blame her.

Because preparing for disappointment is _so_ much easier than getting your hopes (and heart) broken. And you happen to know one or two things about _that_.

With your insides churning and your head throbbing as realization sinks deeper into your awareness, you reach out and, with the back of your hand, you nudge the tumbler of whiskey away from you with a sneer of distaste.

The slightly smokey smell is no longer as appealing and tempting to your nostrils as it had been but a minute ago.

Maybe it's because you have caught the unmistakable scent of the trap waiting for you in that amber liquid. And you _definitively _aren't going to step deliberately into it.

Instead, you roll your shoulders back in an attempt to regain some of your usually proud, confident stance to help you feel more like yourself and trick those demons back into hiding.

You already let them take over this evening.

And you aren't going to allow them to make more damage than you already did on your own under their influence.

You cling onto that resolution as you stand up from the stool and head out of the bar, stepping into the sidewalk under the pouring rain and hailing a cab. This time though, you are fully aware of when you recite the still unfamiliar address of your new home to the driver.

As the taxi pulls off from the curb and slips into traffic, leaving the bar (along with a good portion of your past and the carefree person you used to be) behind, under the mixture of fear and uncertainty that is still there, twisting rebelliously inside you at the prospect of getting back home, you also feel a little bit of pride for not giving into the temptation to drink.

A part of you keeps wondering why you have ended up back in that bar, and you can't discard the idea that maybe your subconscious brought you there with the exact purpose to remind you how much your lives (and _you_ in general) have changed since then.

Since that night when you first met.

As you watch the city pass by before you, looking all the brighter and more chaotic in a trafficked rainy evening, you find yourself absently twisting the titanium band on your finger, thinking about all the things that you and Piper have vowed to each other.

Thinking about all the promises that it holds.

Unable not to wonder if by stepping out on her as you did, you haven't already broken one.

_This..._ The whole _pregnancy, parenthood_ thing... might not have been part of the original plan but... a part of you _knew_ (and has always known) how much Piper desired it. Which consequently means that you (or at least that _a part of you_) had already _accepted_ the inevitability of it, or of the subject coming up one day.

Acknowledging it (along with your mistake and resulting sourness of guilt churning in your stomach) doesn't stop the fear that you are still struggling to keep at bay though.

...but it also doesn't stop that unexpected, contrasting, foreign, warm, _tingling_ feeling that you have felt spreading in your chest earlier, and that is now making your heart do _that thing_ when, in the moment your fears start to subside, all that remains is the fact that - apparently - the procedure _worked_.

Defying all odds of age statistics and general percentages-of-success bullshit.

Just... one try.

That's all it has taken.

That's all that Piper hasn't even _asked_ of you.

And maybe...

Your heart thrums and leaps even harder within your chest at the thought, fluttering with an emotion you still can't define but that wraps your insides in a pleasant, comforting warmth that spreads down your limbs and soothes the cramp-like ache in your scarred, disabled hand, leaving your fingertips tingle pleasantly.

Because_ maybe, _just like that night in that bar all these years ago...

Maybe it was simply_ meant to be._

**. . .**

The keys feel cold, and somewhat heavy in your hand now that you are standing outside the door of your new brownstone apartment.

But the weight that you _actually_ feel, rests in the prospect of going inside and... face the unknown.

You stand there a minute, maybe more, under the rain, contemplating, trying to collect the rest of yourself, until at last you put the keys back into the pocket of your newly drenched, slippery leather jacket and decide to knock instead.

Because given the way you left, and the way Piper has been ranting accusatorily at you, you want to be sure that she will let you _in_ this time. Which, at the moment, is actually a far more metaphorical image than anything else. Or maybe you are just not ready to hypothetically face a whole new fear by having to find out if she has changed the locks on the door already.

_"I don't- I don't _know_ where she went, Pol, I've been calling her but she left her phone at home, and-"_

That ridiculous thought gets erased from your mind as soon as you hear the sharpness of distress and the unmistakable thickness of tears tightening her voice even through the sturdiness of the security door and the incessant noise of the rain pouring outside as she speaks to her best friend on the phone.

The spark of anger has died down, suffocated by the fear that is making her sound even more scared out of her mind than she was when you left.

And upon hearing how deeply upset and concerned she is, a whole new, violent pang of _guilt_ crashes onto you.

But the effect of that mighty blow turns out being even more devastating when the door swings open and you actually have the first chance to see in person all of those raw emotions staring right back at you through swollen, glistening, reddened, wide blue eyes.

It's like getting sucker punched in the gut.

Those sapphire pools grow large, and those rosy lips part in a sharp gasp upon seeing you there as if she just saw a ghost. Or... maybe even just the last person she expected-_ hoped_ to see, apparently.

She looks so lost and scared, but the confusion showing in her expression quickly melts away, giving space to the profound relief mingled with the same awful swirl of guilt that has poisoned your insides, when she sees that it's _you_.

"_A-Alex..._"

The way she breathes your name, almost incredulously, adds to that quiet shock that has her eyes instantly well up with even more tears than the ones she has already shed.

"Hey..." You say, shifting uncomfortably on the spot, while an unexpected - equally guilty and still hurt - awkward, grimacing smile twitches foreingly on your lips.

_"Pipes- Piper! You still there?!"_

Your gaze gets drawn on the phone that is still pressed against her ear, but Piper seems to have fallen suddenly deaf to the sound of her friend's voice.

She just mumbles a distracted, stuttered "I-I'll call you later," and then hangs up while Polly is still talking on the other side of the line.

"Alex," She repeats, disbelieving, carelessly discarding her phone on the console table backed against the entrance wall, moving as if meaning to take a step closer only to backtrack with hesitation at the last moment before she can take a single step closer, and you don't know whether you actually appreciate or not the fact that she is giving you those few more moments and leaves _to you_ the decision to step inside instead of just pulling you in like she is clearly, _barely_ refraining from doing if the nervous twitchiness of her hand is of any indication.

What is sure, is that even if a part of you is glad for the space and those extra few seconds that she grants you to stand there on your own on the threshold to gather the rest of your courage along with as much of your wildly fluttering emotions as you can take a hold of - the look of hurt and guilt and lingering panic that you find staring back at you from within those deep blue eyes, not to mention the imposed self-restraint that it visibly takes her not to submit to the impulse to pull you inside and into her arms, makes another piece of your already beaten-up heart_ crumble_.

She may be the cause for its crippled state, sure. (Not to mention the only one with the power to tear it off the strings keeping it in place and leave it dangling precariously) But there is no point in pretending that she isn't also the solution for you to _fix it_. Every time you tried to do so on your own it just... _never _worked.

And so, at last, you step in.

Tentatively.

In a way, it feels like surrendering.

You take the first step inside with your head ducked, gaze dropping on the floor and... on the old running shoes that Piper has slipped on her feet.

It's a detail that gets your attention and makes you frown in mild confusion, prompting you to scan her over, which only gets you even more puzzled when you find out that she is no longer wearing the sweatpants and baggy t-shirt you have helped her change into early this afternoon when she came home after having felt sick all morning at school.

She has put on the same old jeans and sweatshirt that she has been using to help you repaint the living room this weekend. And it's only when you lift your gaze and see the jacket draped on her other forearm that you realize that she hasn't opened the door because she heard you knocking, but because she was actually getting _out._

"You're dressed," You comment, mumbling the words just dumbly enough as you glance back up at her to find her gaze that in any other circumstance you would probably even groan at your own lameness for uselessly stating the obvious.

Piper, however, is still looking far too dazed to find such sight lame or amusing. She keeps blinking as if she is only now starting to believe that you are _actually_ standing here, in front of her. That you have returned_ home_.

She just stands there. Unmoving. She doesn't even seem to have breathed once since she has opened the door. And yet, despite her generally stunned state, she still manages to provide an answer.

One that makes you feel even worse and far more guilty than what being responsible for that look is already doing to your raw and tender, still partially bleeding insides.

"I was coming to look for you."

And there is _such _a raw genuineness and candor in the way she says it, such hopefulness in that matter-of-fact response, that refrains your impulsive skepticism and holds you back from cynically commenting that looking for you in a city of eight million people and eight hundred square kilometers, was going to be a very _big_ hunt.

Because, after all, she has _always _found a way to surprise you in the past. One way or another.

And since you have always found each other time and time again even when you have been pulled apart by seemingly indomitable external forces, you can't say that _maybe_ \- for how tremendously remote that possibility would have been - she could have even felt the inexplicable _need_ to venture that far and come find you at the bar where you first met...

But none of that matters since you are here now.

"I just..." You start, taking the second, smallest step inside. "I needed some time to be on my own, after..."

You let your voice to trail off, gaze redirecting on the floor, because there is no need to point out the obvious and mention the awful, huge fight you had barely a couple of hours ago.

There aren't many things in the world that would make you leave Piper's side,_ deliberately._ Especially not now that you are both free women. But you _did_ need some time and space to... _process_ and sort through the avalanche of emotions that had crashed onto you at once with Piper's entire panic and unfair accusations to give the whole thing that even more vicious strength behind the already indomitable force that the news- that the startling _realization_ about what has had her in her current, miserable conditions brought on its own.

"...you know." You conclude dismissively, head still ducked to deliberately escape that gaze and looking down at your rain-stained boots.

But there is no avoiding those big blue pools forever. Although, in the moment you glance up again, tentatively, and see the way they have suddenly _filled_ with tears springing from an infinite vastness of the rawest and most intense emotions at once...

"Alex..."

_Damn it._

Here it comes.

"I'm s-so, _so_ sorry,"

The barbed twine of feelings stuck in her throat strangles her voice when she speaks.

"I wasn't- I-_I didn't-_"

_Damn it._

And _damn her_ and the way her voice shakes before breaking, s_hattering_ under the weight of all those emotions. Turning her apology into a choked, gasped whisper that says far too much about how _worried_ she has been.

Damn her and the effect that seeing her like this does to you.

It's more than enough.

Despite the hurt and the simmer of anger that is still flickering in your stomach, the sight of her like this is more than you can bear.

You step inside with purpose, slamming the door shut behind you.

Piper rushes onto your arms just as you reach out to pull her in. Crashing against your front as if you had been taken apart for an unbearably long amount of time, with enough force to knock the air out of your lungs.

And a part of you actually _hates_ how _good_ it feels.

But you can't hate the fact that you finally find it and _feel it_.

It couldn't have been laying at the bottom of that cold whiskey tumbler.

The bite of alcohol that would have burned on its way down your throat was going to be _nothing_ compared to the warmth that envelops you and spreads deep within your bones mending the cracks and indentation left there from earlier when you gather her shaky frame in your arms and press your lips against her soft ones. Cutting off whatever other things she was about to add to her apology.

It's all there in her embrace.

The scorching heat of affection in the way she clings onto you, paired with the equally pleasant, yet gentler, sizzling warmth of reassurance scaring off the demons that you have allowed to creep up from beneath the cold shadows you have been pushing them under during the past few weeks.

Although you _didn't_._ Actively._

And maybe...

Maybe you _do have_ made some progress if you have actually managed to summon the strength and self-restraint to not allow yourself to fall prey of them once again by refusing the inviting numbness of alcohol.

_"I'm sorry..."_

_"Please, forgive me..."_

Those are the words of apology that Piper mumbles breathily, wetly against your lips in between kisses that tastes of the unmistakably, lingering minty flavor of mouthwash. Of the bitter saltiness of guilt and regret.

She is apologizing for being scared, for having freaked out and having taken it all out on you.

Which doesn't certainly justify the way she has accused you. But... it contributes in making you feel even more like the biggest _idiot_ on earth for not having _seen it_ all earlier.

_If you had just done this instead..._

If you had gathered enough strength to swallow down your own rising fears and just took her into your arms, kissed her and then whispered a simple_ "It's okay"_ like you do when you pull back from one final, long kiss, where the amount of emotions that Piper has poured in it succeeds in leaving you a bit lightheaded and breathless, and yet so full with relief all at once.

"I'm here." You tell her, stroking those few soft strands of her golden hair back from her face, enough to be able to properly look in her eyes and convey the kind of reassurance she needs and that you and your uncertainties and _panic_ have denied to her earlier.

She sobs with relief as she buries her face under your chin, against that space between your collarbone and neck.

As you hold her, you can feel her shaking.

Not because of the cold raindrops coating your jacket and seeping through her sweatshirt though.

And it makes you feel all over again like the biggest asshole in the universe.

Because even though you are the one who almost _really_ lost her - like, _definitively _\- once, you are aware that you are_ not_ the only one who has been dealing with _that_ kind of fear...

Only this time you grow more caution in order to not fall prey of that guilt waiting to ambush you behind the corner.

You'll have all the time you need later to scold and kick yourself where you deserve it over how much of an _idiot_ you are.

But right now, Piper needs you, just like she needed you before, if the way she clings even harder onto you is any indication when you once again whisper softly in her ear "I'm here."

"But you _left_," She points out, her voice coming out like a slightly muffled, petulant whine as she speaks against your neck. Her hot tears and breath bathe your skin as she clings tightly onto the lapel of your jacket, making her resemble even more to a frightened, lost,_ abandoned_ child.

"You left and I didn't know where you were a-and I..._ I-I-_" Her voice cracks again, and that crack resonates right within your chest when she pulls back and looks at you with _those eyes_, glistening with the sorrow that is just as audible in her thick, shaky voice when she repeats that "I'm just_ s-so_ so sorry, Al. I didn't_ mean_-"

"No," You interrupt her, firmly yet softly all at once, shaking your head, swallowing the knot of emotions and tears lodged in your throat in an attempt to regain enough of your composure to get a hold on your own voice.

"I shouldn't have stormed off like that." You admit, regretfully, as soon as those blue pools lock with yours in all their vulnerability.

"After all the _awful _things I said to you..." She winces at the memory, closes her eyes and releases a shaky breath, shaking her head as if trying to dispell the bitter, sour after taste that her own accusation left in their wake when she spat them out at you. "I can't blame you." She admits then, all soft and vulnerable and a bit awkward, and... you really can't help the little twitch that your lips do upon hearing her admitting fault so..._ openly, _so sincerely despite that little spark of uneasiness that has her shift on the spot and self consciously fold her arms around herself.

After having spent so much time blaming each other back in your prison-days, when you were both angry and hurt, resentful and betrayed... now here you are: both arguing to take the blame that you_ both_ deserve in this case.

Considering how things were and have been for some time back then though, you think that maybe even your therapist would be proud about the progress that you have made (_on your own,_ no less) as a couple.

In all the years you have known Piper in fact, she has never been particularly... _apt,_ to admit her mistakes.

Fiercely trying to justify her actions was more like her approach back then.

Her stubbornness and ego always had a way to coerce her into making certain, _very_ arguable decisions that, even though were neatly in collision with some of her morals, as long as it satisfied and fulfilled her current purposes, it was all allowed. No matter if it came back biting her ass later.

But... she has changed since then.

You both have.

Perhaps - you think - it's a condition that comes with the whole marriage deal;

Openly acknowledging your own mistakes for the sake of being true to the vows you have taken- to the _promises_ that you have made to each other and live harmoniously together or some shit.

Or perhaps getting kidnapped (_twice_) and then shot by the hand of a vengeful maniac is what has made her realize which are the things that_ really_ matter in life.

To you, it's a combination of both.

Whatever the case may be, now here you are.

As your hands slide down her arms in an attempt to bring warmth to her shaky frame, you take the chance to look at her, letting your gaze travel up and down the length of her body. Absently taking in her current attire while trying to get an idea and generally wrap your head around her current_ physical_ state.

Her jeans, as well as the worn, faded gray sweatshirt, are splattered with drops of white paint, and - just like the old, torn running shoes at her feet - they seem to have been put on in a hurry.

She looks... _cute_... wearing old, baggy clothes that hang from her slim frame like a kid playing dress up with grown-up clothes, and you can't help but inwardly smile at the sight of her like this. Although her improvised choice of attire speaks loudly and shows _exactly_ how tired she must have grown of waiting around for you to get your shit together and pull your head out of your ass. Ready to go out and look for you into whatever hole of despair and hurt panic had managed to swallow you into after your fight.

For the moment, you simply dismiss the thought. Preferring not to think about it and fall prey of the guilt that starts stirring once again in your stomach when you realize in which conditions you left her earlier.

Here.

All by herself.

...well,_ kind of,_ you guess.

"You feeling better?" You ask her at last, gently cupping her face and looking at her a bit more closely, uncaring of your badly concealed apprehension as you examine her in search for the answer of your own question. Because (if not with _anyone_ else) you have grown to feel somehow more... _comfortable_... in indirectly showing your vulnerability to her.

Saying that she looks better respect this afternoon would be a stretch.

The raw concern and fear lingering on her features and clouding her eyes render it hard for you to tell how she must _really_ feel.

Her cheeks seem to have regained some color, but that could be because of the hot tears that have left twin, drying streaks down her face, enhancing the dark circles underneath her reddened eyes.

Eventually though, she reaches up and grasps one of your hands, holding it in hers and leaning further into the warmth of your touch, giving it a little squeeze for emphasis, smiling at you through her teary blue eyes and nodding.

"Now I am." She assures, and then, for what seems like the first time since she opened the door and saw you standing there, she finally allows herself to breathe a long, slightly shaky exhale.

Maybe it's the look that she is giving you. Or perhaps the feeling of her hand slipping into yours so easily and naturally. All you know, is that your heart does that _thing_ again. That little flip that has it thrum vigorously in your throat and swell with the same affection that you find rippling within those endless, glistening pools of blue and in the soft smile that grows and twitches that tiny bit higher on her lips, blossoming into something more sincere as the first wave of relief floods through her, settling her nerves and washing away her concerns.

It's somehow comforting.

But it's not enough since she hasn't _actually,_ _properly_ answered the question you have asked her.

And so, you try again, this time making sure that you don't put any misunderstandings in your inquiry.

"What about..." You start but then, suddenly, your voice trails off in the moment you dare to glance down at her front, swallowing the nerves that flutter back up into your chest from where you have managed to push them down into your belly. "I mean,_ are you_...?"

_Ugh._

_So much for being clear and concise for the sake of receiving a proper answer,_ you inwardly chastise, groaning at your own embarrassing, foreign lack of eloquence.

Or at least you would even _actually feel_ some embarrassed if you weren't getting wrapped once again in the choking grasp of anxiety that prevents you from even completing your question. Far too afraid of how_ that thing_ that stubbornly _insists _in remaining stuck in your throat might interfere with your voice and make it sound like if you dared to speak and push the words past it. And so, you just glance back up at her and watch as she sinks her teeth onto her bottom lip while her eyes dart away. This time, however, she doesn't do it out of the need to divert her gaze from yours, but to prompt you to look towards a specific direction.

Just a few steps further into the living room actually.

And, more specifically, on the glass coffee table in front of the couch.

It's the only real, most essential pieces of furniture that you have managed to put in place here with Cal's help, the rest is still waiting to be assembled and backed against the newly painted walls and scattered around the surrounding.

But that wouldn't make any difference since, in the moment you turn around, you instantly zero on that direction, where, even in the dim light, your gaze immediately lands on the two little sticks laying neatly on a paper towel.

That ball of emotions lodged between your stomach and chest swells to double its size, almost cutting off your air supply when you find yourself sucking in a sharp breath at the sight.

And yet...

Even with that feeling seizing you once again from the inside and turning up the rhythm of your heartbeats into a trotting thrum that grows into a roar in your ears, you find yourself taking the few steps that keep you from the answer of the equally silent question that you haven't dared to ask out loud.

One that you already know.

Just like you instantly _knew _what those two identical stick-shaped _items _are when you see them there.

Resting so_ innocently_ next to each other.

But if you were so stunned to still feel confused, then you guess that the crumpled pharmacy paper bag and opened boxes that lay discarded on the side would have been a good enough clue to push your logic towards the one and only direction.

There is a slight dip in the cushion of the couch, you notice, and, as you come to a stop in front of it and reach out with a shaky hand to grasp between equally trembling fingers the first little white plastic stick, you wonder for_ how long_ had Piper been sitting here... _watching_ the result showing on the tiny display.

-Or rather display_s_, you instantly correct, reaching out for the other test, where, for the second time, the answer to your silent question is met with yet another, small, yet unmistakable, clear _plus sign_.

"I bought them a couple of days after the procedure..." The confession reaches you just as quietly and tentatively as Piper approaches you, with the lightest, most careful steps as she probably would approach a wild animal - to not risk spooking you. And even though the sound of her voice coming from much closer than you expected manages to startle you a bit, you can hardly tear your gaze away from the ultimate verdict of those tests. You can hardly even _breathe_.

"It was too early to have a result of any kind though. So... I..._ put them away_." She explains and it's hearing the vulnerability seeping back into her voice what manages to shake you out from your trance, blink away from the tests, and make you turn around.

"Because I..." She starts only to let her voice trail off into a long pause as she ducks her head. But the strands of golden hair that fall and shield her expression don't mask the way she self-consciously catches her bottom lip caught between her teeth.

Such a rare display that speaks louder than anything she could say.

She needn't explaining further though.

Even in your dazed, stunned state, your mind doesn't have to struggle so hard to come up with the few only reasons why she hasn't taken the test earlier.

_Because she forgot._

_Because you both got so absurdly busy lately._

But mostly...

Because she wanted to wait and be sure that you would have been _there_ to share the moment _with her._

...to have you hold her and comfort her for the disappointment and consequent pain that she has involuntarily ended up preparing for and convincing herself this entire procedure would have brought.

You swallow in yet another futile attempt to dislodge that ball of emotions that coils even tighter and grows bulkier inside your chest, robbing you of the air in your lungs when you glance back at that dip in the couch and the light fluttery feeling in your belly grows as heavy and hot as melted lead.

Guilt has a way to pull you down_ that way._

Especially when you can picture her_ so clearly_, sitting there, maybe an hour or so ago, looking in between incredulous, panicked, and elated- _overjoyed _and _scared_ all at once. All while you were _miles_ away, staring down the rippling amber surface of a glass of whiskey, waiting for your demons to emerge and drag you down into that dark swirling abyss made of your most dreaded fears.

By the time you manage to tear yourself away from that thought - from that startlingly clear image and the sense of remorse that is still there, grinding like stones in the pit of your stomach - and blink into the present, Piper finally dares to lift her gaze.

Those blue eyes attract you with the same compelling, magnetic _pull_ that they always had on you.

Although, the look that you actually find on her face when you give in and glance back up at her, is a mixture of emotions as she waits, with bated breath, for your response.

Something like anticipation and trepidation. Like caution and inevitable, plain, dangerous and_ fragile_ hopefulness.

You swallow again as you glance back down at the tests and... that same warmth that you felt enveloping your chest from the inside earlier and tingling behind your sternum, pleasantly enough to almost make you forget about the burns of your bleeding wounds, seems to flare and expand down into your stomach, melting away that grinding heaviness that had settled there and engulfing your insides at the sight of those two little plus signs.

"So..._ uh,_" You start, softly clearing your throat and then swallowing,_ hard,_ in an attempt to get rid of the emotions that are stuck there and that are currently making your voice sound so uncharacteristically deep and raw. And you guess you have to blame it on how dazed and lightheaded you still feel when, eventually, the first thing you say to her is a stunned,_ dumb_, yet matter-of-fact,

"I got you pregnant."

And if your unconscious intention was to clear the air from the heaviness brought back by the emotions that got a chance to multiply in the previous, stretched moment of silence and fill it with the unexpected lightness dashed with humor upon stating what the tests are unequivocally _both _showing, then you _surely_ succeed.

Piper's expression breaks.

That look of trepidation shattering into a trembling smile right before she sobs out a bark of a laugh. A choked, wet, breathy sound that tumbles past her quivering lips. The warm humor coating it melting the cold tension that was seizing her frame, making her eyes crinkle and sparkle as the hope that has been sizzling tentatively in there bursts with the most absolute _joy_. And, as you watch her, hopelessly mesmerized by that glimmer that shimmers through with such intensity, you know that _that one_ is the real emotion- the fierce _flame _that was there, waiting to shine through in all its roaring splendor, and that was getting suffocated under the crushing, crippling fear that you have seen sinking its wicked claws into her earlier.

"And then you call _me_ a dork." She teases through the tears that she no longer tries to hold back. Surrendering under that overpowering flood of emotions that catches up with her and just letting them tumble freely down her flushed cheeks as you pull her back into your arms, and... there is _no way_ you can't actually reinforce her rightful accusation when you simply, instantly - yet still somehow stunned, and so deeply relieved in feeling her body releasing some more of that tension as she burrows herself deeper onto your embrace - reply to her implication by simply telling her that "I'm feeling far too virile to be defensive right now."

And maybe it's the statement, the uncensored truth that inevitably slips in it, or the fact that you are actually only _half joking_. What you know for sure, is that such comment earns you another one of those wet laughs filled with relief and laced with a slightly stronger thread of the humor that you were only unconsciously trying to unfurl in her and that has her body jolt against yours.

You might have unintentionally joked about it, but the realization itself is even more terrifying than you thought it would be and (same as Piper) haven't had the chance (or deliberately haven't _dared_) to prepare for, but also, at the same time, it's just... _Exhilarating_.

And... still somehow_ surreal_.

The wet, choked sound that slips through Piper's lips is as delightful to hear as it is painful.

White hot and sharp.

Because you could have avoided those tears that get caught in her throat. And a part of you still feels somehow undeserving of hearing the sweet sound of her laugh, although there is no denying how blissfully relieved you are as that incandescent spear uses its own scorching heat to cicatrize that wound on its way out. Leaving the sizzling sting of a fresh stove burn in its wake, caused by the thought- _the regret_ that hunts you.

The involuntary quip, and the sound that you have managed to elicit from her with it, for how bittersweet, helps a little in dissipating some more of that thick heaviness that was still persisting in the air after your fight. But what actually prevents your quivering, tender, wounded insides from spilling out, is feeling the solid, warm shape of her body pressed against yours-_ clinging_ onto you as if afraid that you_ might_-

"Please, don't leave me like that_ ever_ again."

With your voice still held hostage by the far too big and lead-heavy knot of emotions tightening in your throat, the only answer you feel comfortable to provide is a mere nod. Which is hardly sufficient on its own, but you don't need your voice to provide her with the kind of assurance she needs.

She welcomes the new embrace you pull her into with a trembled sigh of relief, letting her body sag, leaning further onto your stronger frame for support.

The feeling of her hot breath caressing your skin, the one of her own thrumming heartbeat echoing against your ribcage, tapping the unmistakable morse code of the emotions beating within yours are the only feelings you focus on.

They have a way of grounding you onto the present, into this reality, especially whenever you startle awake from one of those awfully vivid nightmares. And yet, right now, it still makes everything feel so incredibly surreal.

The haze wrapped around you only conveys even more strongly the entire dream-like vibe of this entire..._ situation._

But even though you might have allowed those same fears that you are used to experiencing in some of your worst nightmares to get in the way earlier, you don't allow the silence that follows and that leaves space for those doubts and negative thoughts and guilt to seep through and drag you back onto your knees.

This time, you aren't going to yield under its weight or flee like a coward.

Not even when Piper pulls back from the crook of your neck and searches your face with watery eyes.

The effect that those two newly glistening pools have on you as soon as they lock with yours, is just as devastating as it has been seeing them earlier when you came home and she opened the door. Only now there isn't the surprise to mask the paralyzing fear and guilt that has once again gotten its wicked hold on her.

"I'm sorry Alex, I-I just..." She whispers, barely audibly, through a shuddered, strangled little sob that vibrates right within your own chest and tugs painfully at your tender, frayed heartstrings.

Once again, there is no need for her to finish that phrase.

You can sense that deeply rooted fear, the same one that got a hold on you too at the very beginning of this whole... new development.

You can hear it in her voice as well as feel it under your hands in the way she shakes.

"I'm so- _so_ scared."

And there it is.

You actually give her credit for uttering it out loud.

It makes her paradoxically brave.

Although, inevitably so, you also can't help but wonder if fear is always going to have a reason to get in the way between the two of you, and... you are starting to suspect that, if things are changing towards this specific direction, then_ yes_.

This path is most likely going to definitively brand you with a whole new kind of fear you still have no idea is going to change a very important, crucial part of you _entirely_.

There is no way to describe how staring into that ocean of blue makes you feel.

It's like standing on a cliff and staring at the sea caught in a storm. All tumultuous waves crashing and deceiving shafts of light seeping through the cracks left by the dark clouds in the sky.

All you know for certain, is that that swirling vortex of emotions is an indomitable force.

Facing them all at once would doom you.

But the one responsible for all that devastation...

The one she has just so bravely uttered...

Oh, you know it quite well. You actually have had the occasion to become so very, deeply, _intimately_ acquainted with it.

It may have gotten its fangs back in you earlier when you _allowed _it, but now, when Piper looks at you like _that_, you know how to grab that fear when she barely breathes those few words. As if uttering that blatant truth and acknowledging it any louder would solidify it into something more tangible.

You can't blame her.

You have been there, too.

But you have learned how to deal with such emotion, _how to resist _its overwhelming pull and not bend to the consequent lingering sting and tenderness that usually follows when you manage to get its claws to retract from your torn, bleeding flesh.

"I know," You tell her, knowingly, reaching out with your other hand - your broken, disabled hand that you have both used to take two lives in _horrific _ways and also display in the most intimate and thorough way the depth of the affection you have for her - using your thumb to wipe away the fresh tear that tumbles down her cheek.

Piper instantly leans into the comfort that your touch provides and reaches up to hold you there in place once again. Drawing strength from such a simple gesture and maybe even using it to brace herself for the blow that she inflicts on herself when, still barely above a whisper, yet slightly louder, she says,

"It's still so s_oon_. What if-" Her voice quivers, too, and so does yet another loose piece of your heart when you feel hers spiking up with apprehension. "What_ if..._" She tries again but finds herself once again unable to utter another word as the shaking of her frame gets worse. And so, you step in and hold her tighter. So she won't falter, fall, and break when she finally admits the real reason that got her to react the way she did earlier, when you found out about her..._ condition._

"What if..._ Something_ happens?"

She is braver than you are in uttering yet another fear like that. The most dreaded of all. The one that could shatter one of her brighter hopes.

No way you are going to let that happen._ Again._

Months of practice and working on yourself - for how uncomfortable and taxing - may actually have made it relatively_ easier_ for you to be able to shake off yours, but she is still under the influence of those vicious, crippling emotions, and you do what you can to take them away by doing and saying what you should have done earlier.

"It's going to be okay." You tell her, softly, yet a bit more firmly to coax her into believing it. And believing_ you_. Because the ones you say to her aren't just words.

They never are.

But this...

This is an actual sworn _promise._

One you will yourself into believing, too. And not just for her sake to make yourself sound more convincing.

Nonetheless, the belief held in your voice, steadied even further by the gentle firmness of your tone, summons an even stronger resolution and confidence that helps you in shaking off the vicious grasp of that wearing feeling for the both of you.

You tear her away from its sharp, unforgiving clutches, and to make sure that those words- that such _promise_ will sink in properly, you seal it by leaning in and pressing your lips against hers in a soft kiss.

She has comforted you more times than you can count. More times than you should have allowed her to. She has taken your pain, your despair, your guilt away and scorched them with the roaring ferocity of her affection. And now... Now you intend to do the same before she can start spiraling down that dangerous, self-destructive vortex of all those other_ "what if's..."_ that are swirling relentlessly in her mind.

You kiss her with what can only be described as a tender fierceness, softly enough to show your ever-burning affection, to convey your regret about leaving like you did earlier, yet firmly enough to banish away the corrupting, poisonous thoughts of _"what if it doesn't work?"_ and the same _"what if I fuck this up?"_ that echoes right within you, too. Which also happens to be second to the one other question (the most dreaded of all) that she can't bring herself to ask_ "what if I turn out being not good enough?"_

"Don't..." You simply breathe against her lips when you part, severing that trail of thoughts before she can ask you those questions herself. Your voice as soft and gentle as the lingering kiss you have just planted on her lips before pulling back. And yet, there is a note of urgency seeping in your tone that is pleadingly demanding.

And it's still there when, eventually, you remember what she told you when you first tentatively came up with the suggestion about giving this a try and remind her the most important thing. The same one you hadn't taken under consideration when you first started thinking about the possibility of getting into all of_ this._

"I can't do this without you," She says, and you don't wait a second further to promptly remind her that "You wouldn't be alone."

And then, considering the way you left earlier, you tell her what you hope is a somehow reassuring "I'm right here. And we are going to figure this out,_ together._"

There is the unmistakable hint of soft vulnerability in your voice, something you have never grown particularly accustomed hearing your tone shift into even if occasionally. Nonetheless, you feel none of that awkwardness that usually follows, if anything - paradoxically enough - that hint of vulnerability helps in making you sound even more convincing to her.

And just like that, from soft and gentle and comforting, in the moment you utter those words of assurance, Piper's roaring affection bursts through. You catch the glimpse of dread in her eyes melting and evaporating before she leans in and takes charge of that kiss with a new fierceness that takes your breath away as it descends smoothly down your chest and pools, warm and welcoming, in the pit of your stomach.

On her lips, you can still taste the saltiness of her tears, now mingled with the gratefulness for your words as you move accordingly to lay down and onto the couch, where Piper pulls you down and you settle with a new, considerable gentleness on top of her.

Because there is no better way than make up and forgive than prove- or rather _remind_ each other how _deep_ your affection and _devotion_ runs.

Which is far,_ far_ deeper than those insecurities and consequent fears will _ever_ be able to reach.

You won't allow it.

"It's going to be okay," You repeat when you come up for air, gazing right into those endless pools of blue as soon as they blink open. Newly clear from the haze of doubt and uncertainty. But it's only when Piper wordlessly tilts her head up and reclaims your lips in a kiss overflowing with ardor and the most profound trust, that you actually start believing it, too.

* * *

**Welcome back to Mushyland, guys :P **


	5. Chapter 5

Hi everyone!

Yes, I'm back... Sorry for the long wait guys. Here, let me just get rid of the cobwebs at the corners and... there! Now I can leave you to this new chapter :) Before I do though, I would like to thank all those who are still following despite the long gaps in between updates. I really do try to do my best guys, believe me, but real life keeps me busy, and the chapters are long, and, as you know, I don't post if I'm not satisfied with them. Anyway, this one is ready now, so here you go with the new chapter :)

Enjoy

* * *

The reminder comes and goes. Like a wave.

Trying to hold your breath in order not to drown whenever your thoughts linger long enough for the realization to strike once again with its entire, crushing force, turns out to be fruitless since, no matter how prepared you think you are, it always manages to catch you by surprise.

The feeling, and the way this... new reality manages to overwhelm you every single time though, makes forgiving Piper somehow easier, even if some of the harsh, unfair words and accusations that she'd spat at you during that fight are still _there_.

Like splinters stuck underneath your skin. And despite all of your efforts and willingness to get rid of them, you don't think you'll ever be able to extract them all. If anything, in fact, you have the feeling that some of that stinging pain is going to stay there for some time. Just like the doubts that have inevitably sprung from some of the things she said to you and that have kept swirling relentlessly somewhere in the back of your mind ever since that night.

It's... challenging, for you to wrap your head around this whole new situation that you are suddenly facing.

A couple of plus signs showing up on some cheap plastic sticks hardly make it real in a physical, _tangible _way.

The blood test results printed on paper are somehow more persuasive. The black ink on white paper makes it look more real and... _indelible_.

But the real, unmistakable sign that eases you further and further, day after day, into the whole... change... of this new reality you have plunged right into without realizing it, is seeing Piper regularly rush to the bathroom to empty her stomach every single morning in something that is becoming her new getting-ready-for-work routine schedule.

She has this accusatory gaze directed right at you whenever she re-emerges from the bathroom, looking as miserable as ever (and yet so fucking adorable whenever she meets your cheerful, uselessly placating grin and syrupy "good morning, honey" with a growl that makes her resemble all the more to a grumpy puppy - a sound and a look that _really _challenges your resolution _not _to laugh no-matter-what, or make any smartass comment about her current condition).

Eventually though, _usually_, that supposed-to-be-threatingly, warning, growling sound that rumbles in her chest, tends to get smothered in the back of her throat and shift into a far more pitiful whine that matches just perfectly with her general conditions.

This morning is no different. Except that you feel particularly guilty for unintentionally teasing even further her morning sickness with the sulfurous smell of hard-boiled eggs, all because you have forgotten to use some vinegar to neutralize it while you were making her breakfast.

She is already all dressed up for work when she steps into the living room, you notice, and on her face coexist a sleepy pout and a grumpy frown that make her look simply, _utterly_ adorable.

Trying to hold back the smile that is right there, tingling on your lips, and prevent it from growing into something far less subtle, takes quite a bit of effort. Especially when she shuffles closer towards the kitchen, where you are fixing her tea with a splash of milk before stirring a teaspoon of honey in it, and _she _greets you again with a softly grumbled, nonetheless far more human-sounding " 'morning".

The temptation to tease her is always there.

As if it might be an _urge _that has been permanently embedded in your DNA or something over the years.

But with her mood that is kind of all over the place lately, you are wise enough not to give into the itch of such temptation and tease her with some puke-related quip.

Instead, you just smile at her and hand her over her steamy cup of minty green tea, successfully smoothing out the little crease sitting there between her eyebrows when you plant a tender kiss on her temple.

For how simple, the gesture is enough to make her melt a little, taking some of her morning grumpiness away.

Something that seems to dissolve even further when she takes the first sip of her tea and you actually hear her hum approvingly at the spiced flavor.

"Your breakfast is ready and waiting for you if you feel like eating, babe." You tell her, tilting your head towards the kitchen island behind you where you have set the table.

It's totally unnecessary though. That "_if_".

Because you know already know that she _does_ feel like eating.

_Always._

Her eyes actually brighten up at the mention of food, and you have to fight the impulse to laugh or... make a face. Honestly, you really _don't know_ how you should react upon seeing her defying every rule of what you'd expect someone's appetite to be like after they have just puked their own guts out.

However, even if her mood seems to improve (for how subtly) with the first sip of her minty flavored, honey-sweetened tea, you don't allow your guard to get lowered, _yet_.

In fact, you already know what is most likely coming when she turns around and heads for the kitchen island. You know it even before she takes a seat.

You can actually _hear_ the way she _startles_ at the sight of her breakfast while you finish tidying up the kitchen.

"Uh, _Al_?"

And here we go...

"What is _this_?"

You sigh.

Because that note of dismay seeping into her voice and giving it that _tilt_ says _everything_ you had already anticipated (and dreaded).

Luckily, you have already prepared yourself for this.

That's why you answer her without turning around or interrupting what you are doing.

"They were eggs up until I checked them last time, about five minutes ago." You joke, back still turned to her as you casually finish cleaning up the counter. "If they have turned into chicks, it's because you took too long to get ready." You conclude, humorously, folding the kitchen towel before finally (bravely) turning around to face her and that _priceless_ expression. Her head tilted to the side, brow knitted, eyes blinking in puzzlement as her gaze shifts between you and her breakfast, eyeing the plate as if it is the oddest, most foreign thing where her gaze has ever landed.

"If those are eggs-" She opens and closes her mouth, looking so dumbfounded that she isn't even able to come up with a metaphor and _wow._.. did you _really_ just render her speechless this early in the morning?

"The yolk is supposed to be juicy, Al!" She sputters, at last, letting loose all of her indignation. Looking _so_ horrified actually, given the way her eyes widen with honest-to-god _shock_ and... fuck, it takes an enormous amount of effort not to burst out laughing right in her face when she _stutters_

"T-these are-"

"Hard-boiled?" You supply, interrupt her, quirking an eyebrow and trying _very hard_ to keep your lips from twitching into that smirk that is threatening to come out at any moment now.

Your attempt to annoy her works spectacularly.

Those piercing blue eyes narrow into thin, murderous slits, her nostrils flare and she juts her chin out, straightening her back with that resolve that has you struggling even harder to hold back a chuckle.

You hold that look and barely manage to dart your tongue out and lick the smile that inevitably twitches on your lips before the insufferable smirk that is hiding just underneath might show through, and before she can notice it - 'cause god help you if she _does._

"I'm not eating these." She states, nudging away the plate you have spent so much time assembling for her with just as much love. And the petulance in her tone and behavior makes the chuckle trapped inside your chest _itch_ with the urge to burst free.

She looks like a child ready to throw a tantrum and... considering her whole hormonal situation, getting into yet another morning dispute wouldn't be such an unthinkable outcome.

And you know that there is only one way to avoid it.

Only one way to get her to just eat her damn breakfast and stop complaining.

"That's a shame." You sigh with realistic, yet fake disappointment, walking towards her, rounding the kitchen island and pulling the stool from under it to take what has become your usual seat right across from her during meals.

She may even be the teacher, this time though, you are going to lecture _her_ for a change.

"You know, eggs are among the most complete and nutritious foods we have on earth. One of the healthiest, too." You inform her, as if she wasn't already perfectly aware of such fact herself.

"_Loaded_ with vitamins and with an awesome amino acid profile." You continue with emphasis, picking up a slice of orange from the little bowl of fresh fruit that you have set near her plate, tearing it in two and nonchalantly popping one half in your mouth. "_And_ with the kind of nutrients that are practically _indispensable_ for developing a, u-_uh_-" You may falter on the word for a moment, but you catch yourself just in time, managing a pretty fast recovery before you can actually stumble. Or choke on your half-chewed orange. "A... fetus."

It's... still strange though.

Naming it out loud.

The way your lips move as you say that word.

And it's also kind of surreal.

The way emotions stir within you when you address that reminder- _the reason_ for this whole "argument".

You just keep feeling _it_.

It always starts in your stomach. Some sort of a pang. A vacuum-like sensation that gives you the impression of plummeting, of plunging without a parachute to slow down your falling, but that, eventually, relents, turning into a gentler serie of flutters that rises from your belly and echoes even more strongly within your ribcage, granting you a smooth surface for you to land onto.

It's... distracting. Equally terrifying and... so oddly comforting and exhilarating all at once.

You have never experienced anything like it before, and you still haven't gotten used to it. But you try not to let it get the firm grasp that it usually tends to have on you at this very delicate moment.

At last, you swallow your slice of orange and meet Piper's still narrowed gaze, holding it with resolution until... she crumbles, and her eyes soften at your compelling argument.

But it's _not_ over.

Not yet.

And you actually would be quite a bit disappointed if she were to yield _so_ easily and didn't decide to go for another one of her tactics.

You catch the way her eyes twinkle, challengingly, before her entire expression shifts into something even softer and oh so dangerously coercing.

"Alex, _honey_..." And her voice melts into something that sounds just as velvety and sweet as actual honey, using _that_ particular tone, looking at you from underneath her lashes like _that_, leaning in, providing you an _excellent_ view of her cleavage generously offered the gap left by her shirt and blazer, reaching out across the table for your hand, and flashing you _that smile_ that she usually reserves for when she wants to get her way. And while you give her credit for the effort, this time, even though not totally inefficient, you have no intention to give in.

Her whole... _effort_... still does make you waver a bit though, forcing you to bite on the inside of your bottom lip to keep from smiling at the display, but you stand your ground, shaking your head, reclaiming your hand from underneath the soothing motion of her thumb across your knuckles, and authoritatively folding your arms across your chest with resolution.

"No way."

She actually startles at the firmness of your blunt, negative answer.

"_B-but-_"

"No buts either." You interrupt her, unable to keep your eyebrow from quirking mischievously in front of the opportunity. "You know I'm more of a leg woman anyway," You quip, smirking smugly and victoriously, and just like that, the murderous, threatening glare worthy of a spoiled french bulldog puppy is back in full force.

She even grinds her teeth and does that sound in the back of her throat that resembles an _actual_ growl.

It would be effective maybe. And maybe that "glare" works with some of her students.

To you, however, she looks as threatening as a paperweight.

And the whole picture of her like this might actually be the most amusing thing you have _ever_ witnessed in your entire life.

You truly can't help bursting out laughing in her face.

A part of you expects some more of that indignation to spark through and flare into actual anger in front of your unrestrained humor, but, surprisingly so, there is none.

Instead, she sighs in defeat.

Which is shocking enough, but it's not like you are going to complain about cutting short this argument.

"Seriously though Pipes," You tell her when you see her finally dropping that antagonistic expression and her features melt into a pout that has your chuckle fade off until the only trace of amusement left on your face is just the soft smile lingering on your lips.

You never thought that you would have had to explain this to her, but apparently, you still have to remind her about the whole "No raw eggs, cheese, meat, fish, or anything unpasteurized" basic-as-fuck rule that _anyone_ knows. That even _you_ already knew without having to check out any of the books that you bought without her knowledge.

Her shoulders sag, and she officially yields in front of that reminder and the potential, totally unnecessary risks she could end up running against if she'd do otherwise just because of personal taste.

And you honestly can't not take a huge amount of satisfaction and pride in seeing her surrender like that, although... the circumstances don't seem to leave her ego particularly wounded for not having been able to have her way.

Perhaps just a bit bruised.

"Fine..." She sighs again, and she doesn't even sound or look too annoyed. More like... unappealed when she glances down at the perfectly sliced eggs sitting like a card fan on a creamy layer of avocado spread on two slices of just-as-perfectly toasted rye bread.

Hell, _you _should be the one to look indignant in front of the grimace that has contorted her features upon the first glace. Because the work you put in that is worthy of a goddamn picture, but you aren't so childish to feel offended by her disapproving look.

In fact, she can sneer all she wants. The important thing is that she has stopped complaining.

"Good." You stand up and round the kitchen island, planting a conciliatory kiss on her cheek. "Now sit down," You instruct her, going as far as gallantly pull the stool out from under the counter for her. "Eat your breakfast and _don't_ use the eggs in some originally creative way to decorate our newly painted, immaculate white walls, got it, Van Gogh?"

_God..._ the baby isn't even here, and yet you feel like you are dealing with a child already.

At least she is giving you the chance to do some practice with all of her whining and tantrums.

"I'm gonna go shower." You state. Piper mutters something under her breath in response as she flops down onto the stool, perching over the edge, but she is wise enough not to protest any further. Or maybe she is just too tired to get full into her dorky-geek mode with you this early and make her own argument.

Either way, you consider it a victory.

Especially when you exit from her line of vision and, before you make your way towards the bedroom to get ready for the day, you linger right before rounding the corner, just for a beat long enough to watch her take the first tentative bite from one of the toasts, already pulling a face.

That hesitant, skeptical expression, however, melts into something unexpectedly pleased when she chews and the taste unfolds on her palate. The smile on your face blooms into that pleased smirk that you have been suppressing for the entire duration of your little "argument" when you see her taking another, far more eager, bigger, enthusiastic crunchy bite, positively _humming_ around it.

Apparently, the combination of dry spices and the pinch of fresh parsley that you have chopped and added in the avocado spread in an attempt to cover up the taste of the cooked yolk, seems to please her more than you haven't dared to hope it would.

The idea of being a housewife, and _fuck_, even just _thinking_ of that word has you cringe and shudder, but... with all the time that you currently have on your hands, the least you can do is making sure Piper doesn't try to eat anything raw and keep her properly fed. Which is something that kind of helps in fighting off that feeling of uselessness sitting heavily in the back of your mind day after day.

**. . .**

All things considered, you have to say that you are quite impressed with how good she actually fairs in getting her usual fix of caffeine in the morning with a cup of tea instead of coffee. But you don't think you have ever seen a human mourn not being able to eat a medium-rare cooked steak or soft boiled eggs as much as Piper does.

It is really hard not to give in to her pout, but years of practice have shaped you up enough to endure it, which might as well be the very first time ever, actually.

Still, medium-rare cooked steaks and eggs with a juicy yolk make it two things she is able to go without, even though not without whining about it. But despite her complainings, she is very well aware about why it's best if she doesn't have those things.

So she can pretend (yes, _pretend_) to whine about it all she wants, but... You _see it_.

Every time you go over the (totally unnecessary-yet frustratingly daily) reminder with her about the limits of her new diet.

You can see the affection shimmering through in the way she looks at you upon witnessing a kind of protectiveness that you haven't actually acknowledged is forming in you. Bubbling up from that most primal and essential part of you where those feeling have been brewing since that night you first found out, and that are (without your conscious knowledge) directed towards something that by now must be barely as big as a shrimp.

You call it alertness.

Piper calls you _"protective"_ and then kisses you to keep you from objecting, discussing adjectives and synonyms and semantics in general, even though, for once, you don't actually think you_ would._

So, summarizing, morning sickness, paired with the illogical, paradoxical increase of appetite, are the first two signs that render the new situation far more tangible and real to you.

Definitely not the kind of signs that can be overlooked or misinterpreted.

Above that, there are also the swift changes in her mood that go from something resembling panic attacks to occasional spikes that show off her temper in all its vast glory (which really, _really_ shouldn't be so appealing or have _that_ kind of _pull_ that it has on you,_ especially_ not when she gets a bit angry) makes it two things.

And, at last, when at your next doctor appointment, much to your surprise, you almost jump out of your seat upon hearing a soft, yet strong thrumming noise coming from Piper's belly, _that_ steady cadence that makes your own ticker skip one or two beats and brings tears to Piper's eyes, makes it officially three.

**. . .**

You turn the picture over and over in your hands. Blinking and squinting at it.

Studying it like you would with a piece of modern, abstract photography hung in a museum, or a picture taken from one of those probes floating somewhere in deep space.

Trying to figure out the pattern of black and white waves that show an image within an image.

You examine it thoroughly, checking it from every angulation. But it's when you turn it once again upside down and tilt your head just so, that you can see it best a far more clearly.

And holy fucking _shit_, part of you knows that you should probably be a little terrified for having the ultimate proof that there is definitely _something_ growing in Piper's belly; aka the reason standing at the base of all those unmistakable symptoms that have been there for several weeks now. And yet, you are unreasonably, alarmingly calm.

Or maybe you are just about to have a meltdown once realization will properly sink in for the rest of the way.

Before that can happen, however, you get distracted by the movement that you catch out of the corner of your eye when Piper approaches you.

She is re-emerging from the bathroom, freshly showered and smelling of argan oil and of the faint trace of the oat milk and honey soap that she favors.

She chuckles when she sees you there on the couch, frowning pensively enough at the picture in your hands to give yourself a headache. But the sweet warmth of that sound is enough to keep you from falling even deeper into that swirling vortex of thoughts you have unintentionally plunged right within from watching that little figure curled on itself.

Even though the interruption from your pondering is light and welcoming, just like the familiarity of her perfume, you blame the fact that you are still kind of dazed for having spent far too long examining the picture when, eventually, you state your ultimate observation with a swaying nod and a distractedly mumbled, still pretty dazed "You know, it could totally be a shrimp."

And, for once, you actually weren't trying to elicit one of those exaggerated, shocked gasps that an old lady would make upon hearing some obscene blasphemy worthy of the wrath of the gods. But _hell_ if you don't feel kind of a bit guilty for receiving one from Piper in response to the observation you happen to have oh so carelessly, distractedly, blurted out.

"_Alex!_" She (rightfully so) scolds you, gasping outrageously.

"What?" You startle a bit, tearing your gaze away from the picture and blinking up at her, trying to regain focus through the thick haze the thoughts crowding your mind.

"It_ totally_ could." You repeat defensively with a little shrug, lips quirking out of their own volition into a little smirk despite the mild twinge of guilt and your intention to keep a serious-neutral expression in front of the shock her face is still covered into.

Her hand comes to rest on her (still flat) belly, with a defensiveness that she has started to develop lately and that you aren't even sure if she is even aware of it or not. But... It makes that thing, that _feeling_ that is still there, trapped within your chest, clench on itself in front of such an... instinctive _protectiveness._

The kind that you currently ignore you might already be developing as well.

You are tempted to hand over the picture to her and challenge her _not_ to see the similarity for herself, but before you can do as much, she reaches out and plucks the picture from your hands, flopping down on the couch and taking a seat beside you.

The glare that she flashes you doesn't linger on her features long enough to make you feel particularly bad though.

In fact, as her gaze fixes on the picture you have been staring at for the past twenty minutes or so, her scolding expression gets soon replaced by a whole new one.

Her features relax, shaping into something softer and infinitely more vulnerable.

"It's... so _small_."

The trace of the amusement that you have felt upon witnessing her shocked reaction, evaporates as soon as you hear the heavy notes of tentativeness and concern seeping into her voice and... starting to cloud her eyes.

Seeing the way they start growing more distant is the only sign you need.

You may be unable to deny the truth of that statement, but you remember that steady, surprisingly, startlingly _loud_, thrumming noise that you've heard coming from just below Piper's chest and... the fresh vivid memory that seems to have been permanently branded in your mind is all it takes for that still foreign, unidentified feeling that has found a home within your chest to swell to double its size.

It pushes against your ribcage and bubbles up in your throat, but for how bulky and persistent, it doesn't prevent you from talking.

It actually lends you the kind of boost you need to reach out slip your hand into hers.

"Hey..."

The gesture, or maybe the sound of your voice, is enough to have Piper blink out from her own stupor and tear her gaze away from the black and white sonogram picture. It first lands on your hand, and then it trails up, until those blue hesitant eyes find yours, reflecting that same worry that you have caught in her voice but a moment ago.

And you don't wait for a second longer to take that feeling away by reassuring her.

"Little prawn is growing strong." You smile at her, deliberately squeezing her hand with a bit more of strength to convey even more strongly what the doctor has assured you after taking the vitals and going over the preliminary test results.

And maybe it's the reminder itself, the dorky way you put into words such reassurance, or the term of endearment that you have chosen, whatever it is, you are just beyond grateful that it works and that Piper's entire frame relaxes as she releases one of those beautiful breathy laughs.

It catches a bit in her throat with the emotions that have decided to get stuck there, but the relief showing on the smile that her lips quirk into, flows right back and through you. Loosening that tightness what was sitting heavily in the pit of your stomach and invading your chest, threatening to corrupt the other, still unidentified, yet sweeter emotion blooming in there.

"You really need to find another term of endearment." She says, but the little glint that you catch shimmering in her eyes before she backs you against the corner of the couch and cuddles your front, tells you that she actually doesn't mind the (quite appropriate) term you are definitely sticking with, at least_ for now._

"I think it fits." You tell her as you pull her closer and stretch your legs down the length of the couch, cradling her frame within the space left, taking the picture back and distractedly (very intentionally) tucking it safely back between the pages of the book you have been reading.

**. . .**

She puts too much effort into trying to look nonchalant and act carefree.

And you know better.

You can see all those little tells that give her away. Showing the pulsing core of anxiety and nervousness that sometimes spikes through her facade of calmness.

It brings you right back to that night you fought.

Seeing her so... quietly vulnerable. All fidgety nerves and a general relentlessness. Perpetually searching for something to keep her (and her wandering mind) from drifting towards those very same, unhealthy, and pretty hazardous thoughts.

And it's only then, upon seeing her like this, that you finally come to understand how frustrating it must have been for her hearing you turning down, time and time again, the chance to talk about what had been troubling you whenever she oh so tenderly and tentatively asked you to after you'd wake up, shaking and distressed, nauseated by yet another sickening night terror.

It might not be the same, but the motive at the base _is_. Even if you have different ways of showing it, the fear of loss is one you share and have come too close too many times already.

You aren't good in comforting people. Have never been. The kind of awkwardness that you have experienced whenever you tried to do so has always made you quite a bit squirmy. But Piper is once again your exception to every rule you had sworn not to break.

Maybe it's because you love her more than you'll ever be able to express to her with words or gestures.

All you know, is that it feels so easy and utterly _effortless_ slipping your hand into hers, draw her attention back into the present and severing that barbed thread of relentless, noxious thoughts with the simplest touch a soft smile and a quiet _"It's okay"_ that manages to shoulder its way right through the fears closing down around her, threatening to pull her down and drown her like the waves of the sea caught in a storm. Mercilessly swallowing everything in their path.

You can't shield her from them or pretend that you can (in any way) overpower their indomitable force. But you _can_ keep her afloat like a buoy while she rocks under their domain. Pull her into your arms and hold her, whispering soft, soothing words of comfort until those crashing waves grow into a quieter, placid lull. Because the feeling is still there, but subdued at last.

Those few occasions teach you a lot, providing you with quite some insight and encouraging you to possibly opening up a little bit more about your own struggles now that you know how terribly frustrating it feels seeing the woman you love battling with her own demons single-handedly and in silence.

Nonetheless, even with you to provide her comfort and Piper clinging into your words of reassurance that everything is going to be fine, you know that she only allows herself to breathe (to actually, _properly_ breathe a real lungful of air) just after the third month.

**. . .**

You have no idea how she does it, but Polly, _somehow_, finds out before Piper can even utter a single word about it. Just one look at her (still flat) belly and she _squeals_. Which creeps the hell out of you.

It takes a couple of weeks more though before Piper feels brave and confident enough to tell her parents. Her mother actually, and, of course, Cal. And you have the feeling that she might have decided to finally do it because there is no way she'd be able to come up with some last-minute explanation about the little, yet noticeable bump that has _just_ started to show from under her clothes, in case either of those two would decide to swing by unannounced.

**. . .**

You see her there, bottom lip caught between her teeth, phone in hand, thumb hovering on her mother's contact, ready to chicken out any moment. Just like she has done for the past week.

And you actually feel a bit guilty for the way your lips twitch upwards with a spike amusement at the sight of her like this.

"I could always call her later, right? Like... Next week."

You sigh.

"_Piper..._"

It's not a reprimand or anything. Well... not exactly. But the look that you flash her says everything you don't tell her, even though it may still be dashed with a shade of amusement. It's a silent, matter of factly "I believe you have been delaying this long enough."

You don't know whether it is the fear that is still there, lurking behind the positivity that comes with the thought that she is _finally _getting out of those first precarious, high-risk months, or if it is about the reaction that her parents might have when she is eventually going to tell them.

It's probably a combination of both. But before you can find the proper words to reassure her, she straightens up, nodding to herself with purpose.

"Fuck it." She says, addressing her own persistent uncertainty with a kick in the groin and then pressing her thumb on the contact before that rush of confidence can drain from her and make her chicken out one more time.

It's not like you have _pushed_ her to do it. You know she was going to get over her uncertainties and lingering insecurities, eventually. But you kind of feel like a hypocrite when you drop down on the couch and try to hide the jittery nerves that start bubbling within you by picking up the rehabilitation thingy you use to do your mobility exercises and try to regain some of the dexterity that you have lost along with some sensibility in your hand.

_"H-hey mom..."_

Your hand twitches around the rubber bands you have slipped onto every single finger, and your heart jumps right into your throat when Carol answers and Piper's nervousness adds to the one that you pretend you aren't already experiencing on your own.

You try to ignore it some more by picking up the book on the coffee table and resuming with your reading, but the words just don't seem to sink in. Leaving you there, reading over and over the same paragraph without registering it, and pretending that you aren't eavesdropping on the entire conversation.

And you aren't, _exactly_. Yet, you can't quite shake off the feeling that, paradoxically enough, makes you feel a bit like an intruder even though you can only hear one end of such conversation.

"No, no, uhm, everything is okay, I just- I wanted to tell you something..."

Fuck, she is really _doing it._

You have to fight the sudden, overwhelming impulse to flee from the room. And if you only could even just_ pretend to_ not feel such an irrational impulse in the first place though it would be so much better for your jittery nerves.

Instead, you remain there, reading over and over the same line, and trying to focus on the movements of the rehabilitation exercises that your physiotherapist has shown you, all while eavesdropping on your wife and mother in law.

And_ Jesus..._ it must be the fucking end of the fucking world, because there is _no way_ that you just heard what you think you just _did_.

Because as soon as Piper tells her the news, Carol Chapman, aka the suburban controlling housewife for excellence, sounds absolutely, honest to god, positively _thrilled._

You can actually hear the excitement in her voice despite the fact that Piper is taking the call and standing on the other side of your vast living room. And you thought that the only scenario where such reaction was possible would have been if Piper told her something along the lines of "I cheated on Alex with a man and got pregnant."

Because she's better off with some nameless stranger from a drunken one-night-stand than the woman who has turned her to a life of crime, got her in prison and almost killed by the hands of a vengeful maniac, _right_?

Jesus...

Are you really _that _fucked up?

You are no stranger to the tricks your brain can pull on you and turn against you occasionally. But _still_...

Taking such an abrupt detour from cynism and steering straight for something purely fatalistic like _this._..

Perhaps it's partially justified though, you reason. Because it's not like Piper's family has done much of an effort in accepting you into her life and properly including you as an actual... family member. As the person she has chosen to spend the rest of her life with.

And now, you have just found out that Piper wasn't simply being optimistic when she told you that her parents were coming around.

When the call ends, with Piper making sure that her mom is going to keep her excitement contained and won't be telling anything to Bill yet (probably because she wants to give the old man a heart attack herself, _in person_) you are still so dazed and caught in the possibility that the whole conversation might actually have been a pure hallucination.

Your mind, after all, gets a kick out of disorienting and teasing you in such cruel ways to detach you from reality.

And that's why, eventually, when the call ends, you turn around, bracing against the back of the couch with your forearm, peering over it with an arched eyebrow, and charging your voice with a nice dose of your usual sarcasm to cover up the many, contrasting emotions bubbling in your chest, simply deciding to ask Piper if-

"Did that actually just_ happen,_ or have I simply passed out and had a particularly vivid dream about your mother gushing over _me_ having gotten you..." Your voice trails off as your gaze shifts lower, zeroing on the bump showing from under the top that she's wearing. You swallow, hard.

Maybe you have deliberately thrown the question out there like an actual joke, because even after all this time sarcasm is still your favorite way to deal with things, especially when too unexpected that you can't instantly figure out your emotions. But then, when you lift your gaze to find Piper's...

Your stomach clenches, and your heart swells and trips over itself for several beats at the sight of the full, gorgeous, dimpled smile you are met with, rendered even more bright and moving by the tears of pure _joy_ that you find shimmering in her eyes.

She nods, as an incredibly vulnerable sound, something in between a sob and a shaky laugh, tumbles past her lips.

You discard your book and your therapy fingers-resistance bands and bolt from the couch so fast that you give yourself vertigo, almost tripping over the coffee table and your own feet in the haste to round it and reach her. But you find your balance back as soon as you pull her into your arms, where she doesn't hesitate to bury herself into, surrendering in the safeness of the embrace.

"Hey, hey, it's okay." You hush softly, holding her tightly and stroking her back when she starts shaking with silent sobs. "I got you."

"I was starting to think that _I_... that _they_ w-wouldn't have-" Her throat tightens with emotions before she releases another soft, wet, hot laugh against the crook of your neck.

There are tears in her choked-up voice. And even though hearing the way they get caught in her throat always wraps your insides in something tight and uncomfortable that prevents you from properly breathing, this time you can hardly worry. Because she sounds so, _so_ unbelievably happy that it actually _aches_ in a whole new beautiful way. Even more when you realize that such happiness comes from the desire that she had about her family coming around and properly acknowledging and including _you_.

"I- I even spoke to my dad,_ briefly_," She adds, sniffling as she pulls back, eyes teary and glistening with the emotions overfilling them, crinkled at the corners with the smile curling on her lips and that stretches into a full grin taking over her entire face. "I told him I had something important to tell him, and he... he asked _us_ to come over for dinner next week."

For how relieving it is seeing her this happy, you might instinctively, inwardly wince a bit at the prospect of such occasion taking place, But... You don't even have to take one more glance at that smile and those teary, pleading blue eyes to know how much it means for her that her parents are finally giving you a proper chance.

**. . .**

"So, you finally had to attend to a family dinner with the parents-in-law. How did it go?"

Doctor Campbell seems once again genuinely curious when she asks you about the... _event_. And the little smile that you catch twitching on her features, exposes a tiny bit of amusement that is perfectly justifiable given the way you instantly grimace at the prospect of having to talk about it.

And _god_, part of you (the dramatic, used-to-disappointments part of you) would _love_ to say that it turned out to be an actual, concretized nightmare and the kind of disaster that every unapproved spouse imagines this kind of ordeal to turn out like. But the truth is that the whole thing was _actually_...

"Better than I hadn't hoped it would after last time we saw each other," You admit, still feeling quite a bit incredulous about it. Even though you _do have_ (for Piper's sake) _hoped _that it would go as smoothly as the bumpy rift that has been left between you and her family could allow such dinner to go.

The tension in between was the rope that you had to cross like an experienced tightrope walker. With no balancing pole and no safety gear attached.

And yet, surprisingly, it has worked out.

You have somehow managed to cross that gap while keeping your balance without the risk to fall on the canyon below.

Sure it hasn't gone without a certain amount of awkwardness and stumbling - especially with Bill's narrowed, scrutinizing gaze locked on you for the first hour or so, watching your every move, before he finally decided to drop it.

Either he understood (from the little unconscious gestures that had you and Piper seek each other's hand, or even simply exchange a few secret looks and a couple of lingering, reassuring smiles) that you care about his daughter more than anything in the world. Or maybe it was the sherry he had been drinking what has melted his antagonism away a little at the time, reducing it into an ignorable simmer by the time you made it to dessert without accidents involving ancient silverware used as deadly weapons.

Whatever the case may be, you are grateful.

"It was..." You pause in your answer, brow furrowing in thought as you consider the proper term to describe the evening.

_Good_ would be a stretch.

_Nice_ even more so.

And _pleasant_, well... Even though Carol has been surprisingly,_ shockingly_ so (in a way you weren't expecting, pretty much like the beaming smile she has flashed you and the fucking _hug_ she has pulled you into when she greeted you at the doorsteps) kind and... warm in a way you didn't know she could be, the way Bill has been keeping his gaze fixed on you for a good part of the night, has surely managed to make you feel quite a bit squirmy, in a way that was starting to border into actual discomfort. And not one you could act on either.

"_Civil_." It's the word you settle for at last to summarize the entire evening, and the choice of such adjective has Doctor Campbell chuckle. That glint of amusement you have caught earlier, sparkling through with that warm, elegant, light laugh of hers.

"I would say it's quite promising then, since that's more than some of my other patients would describe a similar reunion with their own families."

It's a light (and quite successful) attempt to assure you, and the lack of effort in doing so has your own lips twitch into a smile.

"And I had no doubt you could handle it if the occasion presented." Doctor Campbell adds, her smile shifting into something softer, dashed with pride. Subtle. But more than visible enough to make your face heat up in that foreign way, urging you to tilt your head down and self-consciously rub at the back of your neck.

"Yeah well, the hardest part of the evening has actually been trying to keep Piper from reaching for the Chardonnay," Or from keeping her seductive gaze away from your medium-rare steak and defending any possible attacks on your plate, you think, remembering the shameless way she has been courting it, watching it with longing.

"Not that I believed she would have actually taken even a single sip though," You continue, tearing yourself away from that amusing memory. "_But..._"

"Old habits developed at family dinners are hard to break?" Doctor Campbell concludes for you, arching an inquisitory yet knowing, somehow amused eyebrow, and this time it's your turn to chuckle.

"Yeah..." Your laugh is a lot weaker though, and it doesn't hold as much humor when you breathe it out. "Something like that, I guess."

For some reason, your therapist supposed-to-be-humorous comment makes you a bit thoughtful. But it doesn't take much to figure out that the reason for you feeling in such a way can be easily be found in your own family. Or rather the lack of a blood-related one.

Good or bad, you never had the chance to get into the whole family gathering thing with some of your relatives when you were a kid the way Piper was undoubtedly used to on a regular basis.

You could practically _feel it_, actually.

The familiarity of those past occasions.

Bouncing between those walls from Piper's childhood.

Like a ghostly figure lingering in the ample dining room filled with aged, fancy furniture that made you look and feel so tremendously out of place.

All of it.

From the stylish silverware that felt way too heavy and elegant in your incapacitated, clumsy hand, to the vintage velvet-clad chairs that had you squirm on your seat.

The only exception to all those sources of discomfort was the solid, warm, soft hand that occasionally slipped into yours. The thumb tracing the back of your knuckles until that sense of unworthiness that Bill's piercing gaze had been trying to burn onto you for a good part of the evening got melted away, dissolving completely into a puff of nothingness at the sight of the understanding and reassuring smile that Piper would throw your way whenever she sensed you tense up with the jittery nerves fluttering wildly inside you and threatening to take over.

Still, murderous glances and initial painfully small talk aside, the possibility of making of this thing a more regular deal is something you'll have to keep in mind.

Not for you. Obviously.

_Hell no._

One evening has provided you with awkward enough memories to last a lifetime.

But... You could endure it once a week or so, definitely for special occasions, with enough preparation.

For Piper.

But especially... for when the baby will be born.

Because Bill might still not trust you to be around her daughter, or fully accept your bond, or understand that there isn't one thing that you wouldn't do to keep her safe despite not having been able to protect her in the most crucial moment, but... he looked genuinely quite a bit moved - besides (understandably so) initially puzzled - when Piper gave him the news. Although, you have noticed how his... excitement... may have decreased a little when she explained him that it was, in fact, _your_ baby she was carrying. And... you pretend that seeing his expression drop like _that_ hasn't hurt a little. Because why the fuck you should care about his reaction anyway?

Oh yeah, because Piper loves him._ Right._

And your wanting her to keep loving him despite everything, is more important than your growing antagonism towards the cheating bastard.

So you have endured his passive-aggressive snipes during dinner without wilting, holding Piper's hand under the table whenever you saw that muscle in her jaw_ twitching._ Refraining her from doing or saying something incredibly romantic like defending your honor or some shit. Because for how touching (and probably hot) it would have bee witnessing such scene, you know that she would most definitely have ended up regretting the way she would have done it by being awful to her dad. And... you couldn't allow that to happen.

After everything you have been through... prison, kidnappings, gangs and what else, you sure as _hell_ can take his lame, half-assed attempts to intimidate you.

As far as Carol Chapman is concerned instead... Well, _shit_.

Here's the real shocker of the evening.

The woman, in fact, keeps surprising you in ways you would have never expected from her.

Which is startling comforting, in a way that still has you feeling quite dazed about it (besides somehow suspicious, but mostly guilty, for thinking of her as an uptight, cheated-on housewife living in denial and trying to pass along such trait to her daughter). But... At least, between her and Cal, you have someone in the family who doesn't viscerally hate your guts. _For now_, at least.

It's not a victory or anything.

It just is.

So, you take it.

**. . .**

Weekends with Piper are something you both await with anticipation and, at the same time, dread with a bit of trepidation.

Because while you look forward to spend some proper time with her - especially now that you have your new home properly set, with no boxes laying around or pieces of furniture that need assembling, or walls that need repainting (at the exception of one room) - without the usual whirlwind of duties and work and therapy sessions to get in between the two of you, you aren't as much of a shopping enthusiast as she is. As she's _always_ been.

And you don't know whether it is yet another one of those traits that get enhanced by the whole pregnancy thing or what, but you _swear_ that her pout is becoming all the more effective lately. Or maybe it is your resolution to resist it that might be weakening at an alarming rate.

Either way, it's not like you put much resistance when she tries to drag you out of the house during one cold, yet sunny Saturday morning that would be so awesome spent fooling around under the sheets, by bribing you with a string of kisses up your neck and things like "I saw a leather jacket that would look _so_ hot on you and even _hotter_ laying here on our bedroom's floor when I'll tear it off you."

It probably _shouldn't_, you reason, But the fact that she is being dead serious is what makes you burst out laughing, much to her confusion.

But hell, if she is feeling kinky enough to try out some "motorcycle gangbanger/shy-rebellious school teacher" role play, you _definitely_ aren't going to smother that fantasy.

So you accept, kissing the little frown of puzzlement that forms between her eyebrows and has her tilt her head to the side ever so slightly, looking oh so dumbfounded (and so damn cute that if you hadn't already given in, that look alone would have probably done the trick all by itself), agreeing to spend the third Saturday morning in a row running house errands and doing grocery shopping.

You linger in a few shops and you let her treat you with that leather jacket she mentioned, which, as it turns out, looks just as badass on you as she promised you it would have.

Images of a previous lifetime get triggered in your mind, back when it was _you_ the one who spoiled _her_ by meeting every single whim. And even though (_usually_) you aren't fond of _switching,_ you don't mind the reversal for once.

Just like you definitely, don't mind the look that Piper gives you. The way her eyes rake up and down your torso, all dark and appreciating, when you slip the jacket on and pull your hair out from the back of the collar with a deliberately bit more of emphasis. Piper doesn't seem to catch the purposefulness of the gesture, but you revel when you hear the way her breath gets caught in her throat at the sight of you like _this_.

"You still got a good eye, kid." You tease her, digging deeper back in time when you flash her a smirk from the top of your shoulder on the mirror in front of you.

Those blue eyes lock directly with yours and...

Fuck.

Goddamnit, that _look._

The one that, after all this time, is still enough to instantly set your insides into a quivering shimmer.

It's the kind of look filled with purpose and dashed with that subtle pink flush to create the most appealing contrast that would put you in a whole deal of trouble if you decided to slip into one of the changing rooms and give in to that warmth slowly pooling deep down in your lower belly.

Your smirk grows knowing and gains a whole new kind of mischievousness when you catch her lightly gnawing at her bottom lip, eyes scanning you up and down with a far more plain appreciation that is bordering into _rude _at this point. The kind that includes the "other plans" she had mentioned to you this morning regarding the jacket and the exact place where she intends to discard it.

If you leave now, you are probably going to make it home and spend some of that precious, quality time you have been looking forward to, instead of risking getting busted and have public lewdness added to your arrest record.

Plans, however, change unexpectedly when, after leaving the store, and while you are impatiently waiting for the green light to cross the street and reach your block (all while ignoring the feeling that there might be _someone_ observing you from a distance), something catches Piper's eye.

You shake off that uneasy feeling, dismissing your lingering paranoia, turning around to see what it is that got her attention, only to have that _pull_ and the growing simmer of arousal in your belly shift into something else _entirely_.

You experience it as that same pang that starts in your stomach and spreads, warm and tingly, down your limbs.

It borders into something that might feel kind of uncomfortable, yet... Not _quite_. It's just still so... new and... foreign.

You still haven't found a way to properly describe it. But you believe you are gradually getting used to its presence.

And it's definitely the way you feel when you see Piper _there_.

Staring at the shop window of a baby clothing store.

The idea of getting in makes you squirmy. Like an actual kid would at the prospect of getting new clothes. What with your new jacket that was just about to be _tested_ in the most unconventional and wonderfully promising way, and the simmer of arousal coursing so sweetly through your veins, but... you sigh. And then you approach her.

Because Piper has this dreamy kind of smile on her face that has her eyes grow infinitely soft and... It's a look that is dangerously more effective than her pout. Which is really saying something. And it gives you no other choice than enter the store.

After all, even though it's still going to be a while till then, you guess that the baby is going to need some clothes, eventually.

Piper aims straight for the infant aisle, and the familiarity with which she moves towards it, has you realize that this mustn't be the first time she has come here.

You follow her, but look around at the surrounding like a lost wild animal in an utterly foreign environment.

It's all _so._.. tiny.

The only thing that isn't, is the smile that you see stretching across Piper's face when she picks up a baby bodysuit, and you only get the reason for her excitement when she holds it up for you to read_ "Did nine months, currently serving eighteen years probation"._

And fuck. You would have never thought that bringing up your prison past and seeing a quip printed on a baby onesie would have made you laugh _so_ hard to take away whatever trace of awkwardness you might have felt upon stepping foot inside the store.

If possible, Piper's smile stretches even further upon witnessing your sincere burst of amusement.

"We are _totally_ getting this one." You state, picking it up from her hands and examining it more closely, because hell, if this wasn't just waiting there on the rack _specifically _for you to come in and take it.

It's a neutral light gray, which is perfect.

Because even though at your latest doctor check-up appointment - after having firmly established that the baby was doing good, great even, given the strong heartbeat and negative test results (which was your first, most urgent priority) - you could have found out the sex already, you didn't give in to the temptation.

Because finding out that the baby was healthy was all that had been in your mind then. The relief, especially for Piper has been overwhelming. And even though the need to sate such curiosity might still be there for you, you have agreed to keep it a surprise till the very last moment.

Even so, you can't help but notice the way her smile shifts into something infinitely more tender, in a way that makes your heart ache so wonderfully, whenever her gaze lingers on clothes which color tone is limited within the many different shades of pink.

A cute "Rock Chick" bodysuit catches your attention, and you are kind of grateful for the cool graphic displaying a chick popping out from a broken egg. For how silly in its humor, it's enough to successfully prevent you from awkwardly stumbling (and most likely blush through a foreingly timid smile that would definitely grow hot and uncomfortable with mild embarrassment in front of the grin that would most likely spread across Piper's face) over openly admitting to her that you might be secretly hoping for a baby girl, too.

**. . .**

With the precarious, nightmarish first trimester officially behind, Piper finally allows herself to relax.

It takes some time for her to realize as much though, but her frame is no longer locked with the kind of tension and stiffness expected from someone who has been bracing out of the need to always be prepared to land on their feet in case they'd lose their balance.

Your reassurances have done only so much to that deeply rooted fear, and you don't blame her (or feel too useless) for her needing more than words to be assured.

All that matters is that she finally allows herself to breathe.

Her mood might still be a bit all over the place, but at least her morning sickness seems to be finally out of the way. Even though you have to say that the absurd swirl of food combinations that she starts craving in the middle of the second trimester, surely triggers something similar _in you_.

**. . .**

Her increasing appetite is, in fact, another detail - let's call it a symptom - of the whole pregnancy thing.

The only, most appropriate way to describe her voracity would be to compare her to a grizzly bear that has just come out from hibernation (right when they are able to smell a prey in a twenty miles radius, and are so blinded with hunger that they would attack and devour _anything_ that moves).

That's basically the reason why, soon enough, you find yourself (far more often than you probably shouldn't) outside of restaurants at midnight, or some greasy food truck at two in the morning - waiting in line among high, stoned, giggling teenagers having the munchies - for the healthier version of the dirtiest hamburger available, which is _surely_ going to become a gastronomical, Mary-Shelley-Frankenstein-kind-of-nightmare when you'll bring it home to Piper and she is going to stuff it with god-knows which kind of awful combination of condiments she is going to come up with.

Watching her eat so abundantly is both terrifying (like witnessing a shark mercilessly tearing off the flesh from a poor, unfortunate smaller fish) and deeply amusing, but also... kind of endearing. No matter how hard you wince or how loudly you gag whenever she does that... _disgusting_ _swirl_ of canned tuna, peanut butter and chopped _pickles_. Which is actually a great snack with great nutrients - definitely healthier than it looks (minus the sodium in the pickles) - but it's just... beyond _gross _witnessing its preparation and then watching Piper consume it in _spoonfuls._

You find yourself looking at her with an expression that is in between amusement and pure, honest-to-god horror.

And for how much you hate the whole train-wreck analogy, at the moment you find yourself unable to look away from such a horrific scene with the same sick captivation.

"You know what would fit perfectly with this?" She asks at some point, completely out of the blue as her entire face lights up with a new seemingly genius idea. Honestly, you_ really_ _don't_ wanna know, but for some masochistic reason, you find yourself asking anyway, with extreme tentativeness.

"...what?"

And fuck, her eyes actually, _truly_ brighten as if she has just solved the Riemann Hypothesis.

"Some greek yogurt."

You actually gag.

Can't really help it.

And of course, she looks outrageously offended at your reaction.

More than enough to make you wiggle a little with guilt.

"Pipes," You start, placatingly, apologetically and extremely cautiously, because her temper is _so_ damn _easy_ to trigger these days. "Honey, baby, why don't you finish... _that_..." You suggest, tilting your chin to the swirl of canned tuna and peanut butter, while trying not to grimace and keep your own dinner down in your stomach. "...before attacking the two pounds tub of yogurt?"

Luckily, your careful phrasing doesn't upset her. But... Her features shape into what you are starting to believe is (mostly) an unintentional pout and...

_Damn it._

You really, really, _really _hope that the baby isn't going to learn that trick from her, or else you'll be doomed.

"Fine." You sigh, rolling your eyes half-heartedly. Surrendering to a battle that you know you were going to lose since the beginning.

Because that look is so unfairly effective that leaves you with no way out. But you can hardly feel any real frustration in front of the beaming smile that you receive back before you head off to the kitchen.

When she asks you to look for some mustard to top her yogurt with though, you fight off another, much more sickening gag that almost has you take a detour to the bathroom before you manage to get the feeling under control and hide the damn jar in the most remote corner of the fridge and tell her you are out of it.

It's just a temporary save though.

If fact, it doesn't take long for you to seriously start considering the idea of learning how to cook and keep your fridge and freezer and pantry well stocked with pretty much any kind of food, vegetables, fruit and meat, sweet treats and condiments that have been discovered and invented, because it is infinitely less problematic that way than getting woken up at one fucking am with Piper still half asleep mumbling about craving the greasier, dirtiest burger - that no human has possibly eaten without ending up with some_ serious_ long term repercussion - and you having to drag your ass out of bed, across the bridge, and to Greenwich Village because of course, that's the only place in the city where they have those juicy, meaty burgers filled with cholesterol and served with a portion of heart attack and a flyer on how to intervene in case one should occur upon taking the second bite, as a napkin.

In the end, you decide to double your order, because you have the impression that you wouldn't like returning at home and having to find out what Piper would do if her t-rex like appetite wasn't to be satisfied with just one of those bad boys.

And so you spend twenty minutes driving and then another twenty _in line_ to get your order ready, but... The time and lack of sleep turn out being _totally _worth it when you have a front seat to witness your wife digging into them as if the world might be coming to an end and she wants to go with a full stomach, adding strawberry preserve inside them because, apparently they "missed something". _Yeah,_ diabetes on top of high blood pressure. How did you miss _that_? But you wisely decide to swallow down your sarcasm and just limit yourself to smirk at her. Because damn if it isn't amusing seeing the self-conscious blush that grows hot on her cheeks and spreads further down her neck with an added, far hotter shade of guilt when she takes in all the empty wrappers, fries containers and balled up napkins spread all over the coffee table, assessing the damage and realizing what she has just done.

"Oh_ god_..."

And it's so fucking hard not to laugh when she looks just as horrified as you have been for the past fifteen minutes it has taken her to devour her second dinner.

"Promise not to leave me if I gain ten pounds by the end of the week?"

Her eyes are incredulously wide, and her bottom lip actually _quivers_ with what looks like authentic fear. Honestly though, even if she seems to be on the brink of tears, you truly can't help but laugh as you pull her towards you and kiss her.

Because she is _such_ a _huge_ dork. As if she could put on _any_ weight, least of all one single pound in one week of eating garbage thanks to her skinny constitution and generally amazing, enviable genes.

Her lips are still a bit greasy and sticky, but she tastes wonderful: a mix of grilled, smoked meat, honey mustard, roasted peanut butter and strawberry milkshake.

"I promise," You tell her with a smile when you pull back from the kiss, much to her discontentment.

Nothing seems to sate her these days. Kisses (cuddles in general) and food in particular. But she still quietly settles for snuggling against your front, laying her head on your shoulder and nosing the side of your neck.

"Thank you..." She says then, planting a soft kiss on the corner of your jaw, sounding sincerely grateful despite the way embarrassment barely has her mumbling her thanks. "For getting me the midnight snacks."

You smile, pull her closer and kiss the top of her head, melting a bit when she sighs in contentment, laying a hand at the center of your chest and snuggling impossibly closer, as much as her growing belly allows her to without feeling discomfort.

"Anytime." You assure her, lazily running a hand up and down her back.

Although... Now that you think about it...

If she starts craving those tiny sweet, buttery, deep-fried pastries spiced with cinnamon and cardamom and sweetened with honey that probably contain one million calories a piece and that you have had that_ one_ time you have been to Cyprus, you are going to say no. _Probably_.

But... your shoulders sag as you heave one deep remorseful, guilty, silent sigh. Because that's highly unlikely.

In fact, in case she asked for them, you'll go as far as drive to the other side of the city and to that Cypriot restaurant. Or even look for the recipe online and fully accept your condemnation as a housewife by getting fully into cooking mode and make them yourself, or burn down the awesome, fully equipped kitchen (thanks to Polly and her wedding gifts) of your new home trying.

**. . .**

Her unreasonable food requests keep only getting weirder.

It's actually the aspect you find yourself struggling the most with lately, since _all of them_ \- of-fucking-course - come right in the middle of the night.

"Alex, baby, wake up."

When you are stirred awake one night, and hear the heavy note of distress in her voice, the first thing that your disconnected, fuzzy brain assembles together after a moment, is that she might feel unwell. And it's exactly that tone in her voice, the urgency in it that manages to shake you out from your sleep, making you spring upright with a surge of panic.

"Uh?_ Wha...?_ What is it? You okay?"

Your head spins at the abrupt motion, but the sudden dizziness doesn't keep you from blindly reaching for your phone on the nightstand. You are ready to dial 911 when you catch a glimpse of her expression in the dark and it's not distress the look that you find etched in her partially shadowed features.

Oh no.

That's _guilt._

But you only register it in full when she timidly asks you if

"Do we have any dragonfruit?"

You are still dazed, being torn from the realm of a blissfully dreamless sleep (for once) and startled awake doesn't mean that awareness returns just as quickly. And so, at first, when you hear such question you think you might still be dreaming. You aren't though.

You blink.

And then, when the request properly sinks into your still fuzzy brain, you look at her as if she has just grown three heads.

"_What?!_"

She...

She must be fucking with you. _Right_?

Woke you up on purpose to make some kind of joke you don't quite get?

No_ way_ she is for real.

And yet, that expression...

It doesn't waver.

Doesn't give away anything else but embarrassment and awkwardness upon making such a _ridiculous_ request.

And you realize that for how unthinkable, she_ really_ just woke up because she had been craving a tropical fruit she has tried _once_ when you were in Vietnam.

It would be cool, really, if it wasn't two in the morning, if you weren't right in the middle of winter with ten fucking degrees outside and with the streets (and literally _everything else_) blocked and closed and covered by a thick twelve inches layer of snow.

"I'm going back to sleep now." You inform her before turning around and completely ignoring her incredulous, indignified sputtering about you not tending to her needs.

You may still be a bit unnerved by having your sleep interrupted in such a way for nothing, but you still silently sigh in relief when you settle back down on your pillow and snuggle under the warmth of the covers. And you honestly can't help the chuckle that tumbles past your lips when, after you blindly reach back and grasp her hand, tugging her towards you in a peace offering, she submits without any further protest. She just mumbles something under her breath as she folds her body against your back in a controversial angry snuggle.

Before you succumb once again to the pull of slumber, however, you reach the ultimate decision to properly stock your fridge and freezer and pantry in a way that will meet the unreasonable requests and voracious appetite of a pregnant woman.

It doesn't stop the cravings.

Of course not.

But at least it provides you with _options _whenever she comes up with... whatever absurd swirl her crazed hormones are making her favor these days.

She blames _you_.

But, for once, you don't try to defend yourself or overturn the accusation. Unable to ignore the amount of satisfaction and unexpected simmer of... _pride_ that you find within such knowledge.

**. . .**

Despite the still present spikes of anxiety, the weird, horrifying combinations of food that she comes up with - most of which (of course) keep happening in the middle of the night - you have to admit that you are _loving _what the extra intake of calories is doing to her body; giving more softness to her curves. Like... her hips, for example. And... her... ah, breasts. They seem to be growing more... prominent. And even though you have always been more the kind of woman that went for the ass/legs combo, Piper's front duo getting bigger is one of the first physical changes (besides the growing bump on her belly) that you notice in her body.

You don't think of it as an improvement though, since you have always appreciated, _very much so_ (and never passed up the chance to show it to her) the way she's always been, but... you surely aren't disappointed by the way your, uh... _attention_, gets drawn far more easily by her chest now. And neither _she_ seems to mind.

One day though, she is looking herself in the mirror, appraising the way her clothes are starting to look less loose around her slim frame (a detail for which, once again, you aren't going to complain about) and cling (somehow more attractively) to her new curves, when she says (and then actually _cries_) that-

"I've never been more fat! Ugh,_ look at me_!"

Honestly, for the past half an hour, you haven't done anything else but _that_, lounged on the bed, while only pretending to read and trying to dismiss the familiar tingle that had you press your legs together in order to forget all about it, or (more realistically) as much of it as you could.

Despite the complaint in her voice though, she doesn't sound upset, but rather... resigned maybe.

And you couldn't find it any more endearing.

Because people with a tall and lanky, ectomorph constitution like Piper's, simply _never_ get fat. But since you know that your spoken assurances are going to be (once again) ignored, instead of just telling her how beautiful and yeah, radiant even, she is these days, you decide to make your compelling argument in a way she won't be able to protest.

You never needed many words to show her how you feel anyway.

"Come over here," You simply tell her, closing up your book and holding out your hand in invitation, scooting to the edge of the bed and hanging there, waiting for her.

She shuffles closer, an uncharacteristic spark of self-consciousness sparking through from her younger self. It's not a trait that belongs to her anymore. You don't think it ever really did, but it sure is... _cute_, seeing it rear its head from over a decade.

Eventually, that hint of hesitation melts away and toughens back into the more familiar confidence as soon as her hand slips onto yours, accepting the invite.

When she swings one leg over your lap and straddles you, you can feel it, for how light, that extra weight, along with the outline of the slowly forming bump that is leaving increasingly less space between you two whenever you find yourselves in this position.

Because there is no better way than prove her wrong than to show her how much you are appreciating this... change, that is starting to show on her body, and how this whole hormonal thing is affecting you, as well.

The new softness in her curves is just the beginning, but there are other, more subtle signs, like the way she smells, the new silky smoothness and... _glow_ that her skin has gained, and that is oh so incredibly appealing under your palms and lips. And despite her initial reluctance born from that same spark of self-consciousness you have witnessed earlier, Piper definitely doesn't turn down your generous offer when you pull her into your arms like this and start trailing kisses along her neck, following the line of her jaw, aiming for that point behind her ear that elicits the most exquisite full-body shiver and the most delightful gasped, breathy moan from her lips.

"You're so beautiful." You whisper hotly in her ear. And in response to that, she whimpers.

"A-Alex..." She breathes your name in a plea, holding tight onto your upper arms, grinding her hips onto yours as that primal instinct surfaces.

She needn't begging you.

Although, for how embarrassing it is to admit, these days you find yourself_ struggling_ to keep up with her in bed.

Forcing you to do something you _never_ felt the need to do before...

**. . .**

She is_ exceptionally sensitive._

She has always been, but _god_... not like _this._

The sensitivity of her skin has reached a whole new level during the past couple of weeks, and you know that it has once again everything to do with the whole hormonal situation that her body is gradually adapting into. Rendering her hypersensitive and somehow _softer_ under the gentle pressure of your touch. But it's hard to think of it as some kind of side effect when it is _your _breath that tickles the side of her neck and makes her shudder like _that_. The way she whines when you nibble at that extremely tender, secret spot found between the angle of her jaw and an inch just below her earlobe.

You _barely_ have to huskily whisper a few filthy words in her ear these days to get her all hot and bothered and _ready_, but you do it anyway, just to hear the way her shuddered breath hitches and transitions into an impatient moan that says absolutely _everything_ about how keyed up she is. And it gets ultimately confirmed to you by the slickness that welcomes you when you finally, finally listen to her pleas and slide a hand into her panties.

If she has grown incredibly sensitive everywhere else, there is no describing how responsive she has gotten down _here_.

She is already firm, her thick arousal burning so sweetly against the pads of your fingers and the way she hisses your name in between a plea and a warning, sinking her blunt nails onto your scalp and the back of your shoulder, is what throws your teasing and your whole _"I'm-going-to-take-this-slow" _resolution, right out of the window.

The first time you touch her it is always purposeful and quick. The pace of your circling fingers deliberately fast to get her off and unfurl that tension coiled tight in her lower belly. It unravels like a ball of twine under your touch. Like pulling at the loose thread and leave the rest to gravity. It's really that easy, but definitely no less beautiful. And it's quickness serves its purpose, so that she will be able to enjoy the much slower, sweeter torture you have every intention to put her through later.

When she reaches that peak the first time it's fast and intense. A can of soda shaken up to the bursting point.

She clings onto you as if the world might be about to end, fingers raking down your back, hips bucking wildly into your hand, coaxing you to go that tiny bit deeper, curl your fingers _"just like that"_ over _that_ spot that always,_ always_ earns you the most incredible moan that might distantly even resemble your name.

It's fierce.

Almost violent.

But it's nothing more than an energetic a warm up.

Something to get her heart pumping, her blood flowing and her system _over_flowing with the first rush of adrenaline, dopamine, and oxytocin to heighten her senses. And it is that dangerous cocktail of hormones coursing through her system what also provides her with the kind of stamina and recovery time that for the first time Ever turns out being a real challenge for you to keep up with.

And even if you are somehow able to reassure yourself and justify your... decrease of endurance... by blaming it on the injury you have sustained in your now-not-longer-so-dexterous hand, you have no excuses for when it is your mouth the one you have buried between her legs bringing her to a gentler, sweeter bliss with the hypnotic swirling motion of your tongue and slightly firmer suckling of your lips sealed around her clit, or when you are wearing _something _from your was array of _alternative,_ _wearable_ toys and fucking multiple, harsher orgasms out of her exquisitely writhing body.

You swear, sometimes you get off just by looking at her there, like that. Tossing her head from side to side, panting and flushing into that shade of pink that compliments her pale of skin so nicely. That vein straining against her neck. Eyes bottomless-dark and filled- _dizzy_ with desire when they blink open and drunkenly regain focus.

Your back is sore, the muscles in your legs are trembling and your lungs have never craved so much air before. You feel like a marathon runner must feel, and given the level you brought up your game in the past couple of hours, you kind of think you might even deserve a fucking gold medal actually for the Olympic performance.

Your arms shake with the exertion of holding yourself up for so long, and you barely manage to roll onto your side, mindful of Piper and the new... uh... precious cargo that she is carrying.

Exhaustion seeps deeper with each breath you draw in, giving your body the kind of heaviness that resembles the one preceding the last plunge into sleep.

And yet...

Piper purrs and hums as she snuggles onto your side. Hips rocking subtly yet quite obviously and with as much purpose against your thigh.

"_Seriously?_" You ask and you do it on purpose to sound so incredulous, but really, you actually _aren't_. The breathless, raspy laugh that slips past your lips as you sputter out that word, is dashed with a particular shade of amusement.

Piper simply grins at you, so beautiful and totally unabashed despite what the flush of pink high on her cheeks might suggest.

It embarrasses you like you never thought you would when you actually feel the need to ask her for "Just... Give me a couple of minutes, kid." You could actually use five or ten, maybe even grab a snack. Or a protein shake, given the kind of high-intensity workout she's just put you through.

If possible, asking her for a short break, manages to make that grin grow even bigger and-

"Aww," She cooes, mockingly and looking _sooo_ unsufferably delighted. "Have I worn you out already?"

Ugh.

She looks smug _as hell._

Your gaze narrows, lips pursing on the side to hide the smile that was starting to form there despite her taunting.

"You best be careful." You warn her. And god, you might as well have just whispered the dirtiest, kinkiest fantasy in her ear. Because the way you utter such warning seems to be _everything_ she was hoping to hear given the way her expression falters and her eyes flash dark and intrigued and her next breath gets caught in her throat.

"You could always give me a lesson for being so insolent, _Mistress_." She purrs, hotly, as a sly smile curls on her lips.

_Damn her._

She is playing her cards good enough.

You taught her well.

_Too well._

No matter how damn persuasive her arguments are undoubtedly going to be though, you won't get her to pick anything from your usual kinky ties-choking-spanking menu.

"Or..." She suggests, and it is hearing that note of mischief making its way into her voice what tears you out from those distracting thoughts, bringing you back into the spinning present, where she is currently sliding one thigh over your waist and straddling you in a swift and smooth motion, all lanky limbs and elegance, leaning down, hands resting on your shoulders while yours find their way on her thighs out of their own volition. "While you recover and think about which my punishment is going to be, I could just do _this_." She says, planting her hands on your chest, urging you down and brushing a feather-light, teasing kiss against your lips.

One of her hands leaves your chest and reaches down between your sweat-slick, heated bodies and for a moment, thanks to that teasing tingly-soft kiss, you are left confused by what she might have in mind.

You head tends to get a bit fuzzy whenever she is so close that you can feel the compelling warmth of her body melting with your own, but realization doesn't delay to come when you feel her reaching for the shaft of the toy resting between your legs. Still hot and slick with her fluids.

"You thirst slut." You accuse her as a slow grin spreads across your face, and Piper does nothing if not hum in confirmation at the note of affection that you throw in the insult.

"You have _no_ idea, Al."

And yeah, you are starting to get that. You can be understanding, but you can't fully comprehend the kind of changes her body is currently going through.

All you can do in this case is just... Let her take charge and try to sate that hunger that is consuming her these days while you do your best to regain some strength and push it back into your sore, exquisitely aching muscles.

"Try not to make a habit out of this." You warn her, but your voice is weak with exertion, and your hands hold no caution, but only the most authentic adoration as they brush the sensuous swell of her hips and slide up her torso, climbing up her ribcage until you reach those two, small, yet incredibly soft and equally, unbelievably responsive mounds there.

Although, when you see her lowering herself onto the shaft, head tossing back, torso bowing onto your touch, lips parted to release that shuddered breath, and fingernails biting into your skin hard enough to make you hiss when she sinks all the way onto it, you almost want to take that warning back.

Too bad your throat has suddenly grown too dry for you to speak without running into the risk of awkwardly stammering over your words.

Summoning whatever shred of strength that has been left clinging onto your bones, you lift yourself up into a sitting position, leaning back against the headboard for balance, pressing your mouth against her chest, wrapping her arms around your shoulders and holding her close to you, providing her the kind of leverage she needs as she lifts herself up and down your lap, shuddering and whimpering, chanting your name over and over like a prayer.

And_ God_, even exhausted as you are, where even breathing turns out being a challenging necessity, you still find yourself answering every single request that she silently pour in such prayer.

She may not utter them out loud, but her body has never been ashamed to show you _exactly _what it needs.

In the end, the ache in your lower back and the light burn result from a cramp in your wrist, is definitely (and over a thousand times) worthy the look of pure, euphoric bliss and the wide beautiful, dimpled smile you have fallen in love with and that takes over her features when you are done. All there is left is left at this point, is gather her shaky, sated frame and listen to the way her purrs of contentment turn into long steady, even breaths when she falls asleep in your arms.

**. . .**

Months pass by surprisingly fast.

Festivities and anniversaries with them.

Miraculously, you manage to go through the anniversary of the day Piper almost died without having another self-induced guilt trip.

You spend Christmas eve with Cal and his wife and son, which is pleasant and light and familiar without the weight and anxiety of an actual, full family reunion and having to fight off feeling like an intruder. New Year is just for the two of you and old Saturday Night Live sketches that you have missed out during your sentence. And even though you have never really been a "Valentine's day" enthusiast, you do spend it getting safely kinky by throwing some classic food-play within your... session, (because Piper has grown so incredibly sensitive lately that you simply can't resist pressing your lips and running your tongue and brushing your fingertips over every inch of her body and hear that quivering, breathy sigh that she does whenever you discover a new erogenous spot in the most unexpected of places).

The thing that you notice most of all though during these months, is how the slightly wrinkled, scarred little circle resting between Piper's sixth and seventh rib, disappears the more her belly stretches.

Pushing the past aside to make space for the present and the quickly approaching future.

Whenever you find yourself reaching out to feel it for yourself, it's with hesitation and a kind of tentativeness that you have never experienced whenever the thought of touching her was involved. But when you do touch her belly, you never do it with your right hand.

You truly can't bring yourself to do it.

And you aren't enough of a fool to believe that Piper hasn't noticed as much.

One evening, she tricks you so well in testing her theory, that you (exhausted by yet another particularly intense round of bed activities), have no reason to suspect anything when she curls on her side and, with an instinct that has long been embedded in you, you reach out and pull her closer by mindfully wrapping your arm around her waist.

After the intense session that left you particularly spent, _this_ is the only thing that she - that the both of you - are left craving. It feels so natural to fold your body behind hers like this, to cuddle her frame, and the hint of primal, instinctive, unconscious protectiveness in such embrace doesn't pass unnoticed by your swaying consciousness.

The position is one you deeply cherish, one that you have brought forward through the lives you have spent together. And that's why it's so natural to fall into it, as easy and vital as expelling a breath before drawing in a new, refreshing lungful of air.

And it's with the same naturalness and innate protectiveness swelling within your chest as your eyes flutter shut and your breathing evens out to match Piper's, that you rest your right hand there on the growing swell of her belly.

You fall asleep for a minute.

Maybe ten.

It's hard to tell or care about time when you have your entire world within arm's reach. Literally.

Eventually though, it's the feeling of something _stirring _beneath your hand that tugs you out from that space preceding the last step that was about to make you fall into a hopefully peaceful, dreamless depth of slumber.

You stir awake, distantly thinking, under the haze of sleep, that it must have been Piper moving.

But her breathing is even and so peacefully calm, and when you blink your eyes open, you see that she is still laying in the same exact position you have folded your bodies into.

Confusion pushes through the haze of sleep and nudges at your awareness with more persistence, until you feel it again.

This time a bit stronger, and slightly more centered.

It knocks right against your palm and the scar bisecting it in two.

Tiny and soft. Yet loaded with an unintentional, _primal_ kind of strength.

It's strong enough in its unwillingness to startle you fully awake. But just before you can pull your hand away as if you had been burned, you get stopped.

"_Don't._" Piper murmurs, not really asleep but not fully awake either. Just conscious enough to reach out and lay a hand on top of yours. Keeping you in place with a firm gentleness.

Grounding and forgiving.

It prevents you from pulling away again.

But you don't dare to breathe just yet.

"W-was _that_...?" Your heart has stumbled out of its rhythm like a derailing train, and your throat has dried up, but for once, you don't care about how rough and awkward and strained your voice sounds when you speak.

You aren't even embarrassed when you hear Piper's raw, sleepy chuckle and feel the way it bounces between what little space is left between your bodies when she turns around to lay on her back, keeping your joined hands still intertwined over her firm, round belly, where your gaze lands and doesn't move away from, eyes wide, stunned and unblinking.

"I believe that was our little _prawn_ saying hi to you, baby mama."

It's probably the humor, the soft smile in her warmly teasing voice and... the most awkward, endearingly sleepy kind of smirk you are met with when you manage to tear your gaze away from her stomach and glance up at her what makes whatever irrational fear that had sprung from the surprise of that... movement...melt away in front of the tenderness that you see shaping Piper's features and brightening her (very sleepy) eyes.

"I don't know about _little_," You counter, in between amazement and lingering bewilderment as your gaze gets once again drawn to the firm swell of Piper's belly. "And I don't know about prawn either, 'cause that was _definitely_ a foot kick."

The seriousness of such statement and your generally stunned expression makes Piper burst into a laugh. Loud and filled with humor. The sound of it is enough to shake you out from your own stupor, eliciting yet another foreign flush of heat to your face when you think about the dumbness of your own lame assertion.

Even when caught unprepared though, you don't feel the sting of embarrassment burn through and itch uncomfortably under your skin.

To prevent that, there is the affectionate softness of Piper's sleepy smile dashed with just that tiny bit of apprehension showing on her features when she turns to look at her, and seeping in her voice (which really shouldn't sound so velvety smooth and unbelievably soothing under the weight of sleep) when, with her humor subsided, she oh so quietly asks if "You okay there, Al?"

The same feeling that you have experienced that night, when you first found out that the procedure worked, and that has been there for the past several months, simmers and flutters in your stomach, lifting until it spreads within the cavity of your chest. Warm and comforting.

It's deceiving, the way it makes your heart beat that tiny bit faster and harsher, picking up a rhythm that you have long learned to associate with trepidation, yet not exactly fear. It melts into something else. Something warmer and softer, yet _fiercer_...

You still don't know how to properly describe it, least of all _identify it_. The place from where it originates is too dark for you to make out its form, but you can see the outline, all soft and smooth curves.

And that tingling warmth blooming within your ribcage and robbing your lungs of air, sure resembles a lot the kind of affection that you have for Piper.

Just... more chaste.

Something that is past its early stage but has already started to take a more consistent form.

Which is, you believe, perfectly appropriate.

"Y-yeah," You answer, for once completely unconcerned of how raw and emotional your voice sounds when you utter that single word of assurance.

And, just like that, as soon as you speak, another (although far lighter) kick vibrates against your hand, and it's only then that you acknowledge the smile that has curled on your lips.

It's not as full as Piper's though. Who is actually beaming through her sleepy blue eyes. Rosy lips stretched wide enough to dig those two gorgeous, lovely dimples on her cheeks.

Suddenly, the impulse to remove your broken, disabled, scarred hand is no longer there. Melted along with the ghost ache in your palm.

With a kind of bravery that you have no idea from where it comes from, you keep it in place, using your thumb to draw small, soothing, tentative circles over that delicate spot.

"I am."

**. . .**

The next day, you change into some old, faded clothes and turn what you have been pretending for far too long being your "guest room", into the nursery you had pictured in spite of your own doubts, in the moment you saw and stepped foot into said room during your first tour of the house.

You don't feel yet so confident to venture with any specific-gender color, but the idea of going for the neutral gray-ish-something paint doesn't appeal you.

Eventually though, you decide to look past your uncertainty and go for a soothing, light turquoise.

Because it reminds you of the crystal water of the seas that you and Piper have seen in your travels around the world.

Because it reminds you of Piper's eyes blinking open first thing in the morning when she wakes up, stretching languidly and squinting at the sun filtering through your bedroom window before turning over and greeting you with a good morning kiss.

But mostly, you choose that color because fuck the present's 21st-century common rule.

You are stuck in the retro, and feeling a bit 1920 these days. Back when women finally started showing off some balls by acting a bit more rebelliously.

And back when blue - so dainty and delicate - was a girl's color.

Piper chuckles when you proudly list the motivations leading to such decision, she makes a joke about women's rights by calling you a devoted housewife and a skilled handyman, (no doubt throwing in some not-so-subliminal message to prepare you for what is most likely going to be a pretty intense role-play scenario for later tonight given the mischievous little wink that she flashes you).

"It looks like an aquarium," She comments eventually, looking around and nodding approvingly.

Her eyes brighten up with that glint then, and part of you was kind of already expecting the quip she comes up with.

"I bet our little _prawn _is going to feel at home in it."

You roll your eyes affectionately. And sure, she might have taken the chance to tease you (probably like you would have done with her) but you can still clearly _see it_. Laying under that warm glint of amusement; the way the blue in her eyes ripples with an infinite, soft affection.

"So you _uh_... you like it?" You ask not really searching for further reassurance but more like... a confirmation to what you think is an unspoken, mutual wish at this point.

Her smile grows a bit wider as she turns and takes a step closer, reaching up with one hand and wiping away the fresh smudge of light blue paint on your cheek with the pad of her thumb, replacing it with the faintest blush when she plants the softest kiss on the corner of your mouth.

"I love it."

* * *

**_Almost_ there...**


	6. Chapter 6

Hi there!

Okay, so I think that I'm on time for once :D Got the new update ready for you guys and... I won't say anything except you best buckle up. Long, bumpy chapter ahead. Things may start off a bit rough and take a few rougher turns here and there before they get better... maybe... eventually. Who knows :P Anyway...

Enjoy

* * *

The suggestion first came from your therapist, and of course, skeptical as you have always been since the very beginning about the whole, dreadful therapy thing, you have dismissed the advice right then and there.

No thank you, hard pass. I'm good.

You _so _weren't.

But you thought you could handle it. And really didn't see the point in trying to relive all of that _on_ _purpose_. It seemed kind of counterproductive actually.

But that was just an excuse, because deep down, instead of getting over it, a sick, fucked up, unconscious, poisoned part of you actually wanted to _endure it_.

That anguish and pain balled up and stuffed down in your belly, sewed to the rest of your insides like a new beating organ made of piercing spikes and poisonous thorns poking at the rest of you, making you bleed slowly from the inside.

You could bear it. The way your body rejected it as something that didn't belong there.

It was a proper punishment, you decided.

A more constant reminder than the one already prickling in your hand, or the guilt and regret worming its way through your entire being, flooding your veins and corrupting your core.

But if nightmares and flashbacks were the price you'd have had to pay for all the mistakes you have made, for almost having gotten the woman you love killed, you were willing to pay it for the rest of your life.

But what good would that have been for Piper? Who threw herself in front of a loaded gun and got shot in the struggle because she couldn't bear losing you. Because she too, as she told you, had been dealing with that sense of powerlessness ever since that time you got tied up by another psychotic mad man.

So you had to dismiss your grand self-destructive plan.

Because what's the point in keep breaking yourself down into smaller and smaller pieces that only keep getting harder and more challenging to put back together?

The additional guilt that you would have felt in knowing that you were to be responsible for causing Piper any more pain if she lost you _to yourself_ after the idiotic heroic thing she has done to keep you safe...

That is something you could never forgive to yourself. Having Piper help you pick those fragments up with you and risk having her cut herself in the process by involuntarily forcing her to relive all of that, _again_.

That was totally unnecessary. Cruel. And utterly selfish.

The image that those broken, sharp shards of your past mistakes keep reflecting in the mirror, is yours after all. Fragmented. Like a corrupted memory. The segments between one piece and another are like lines of destiny made of all the "what ifs" that still make it hard for you to sleep at night.

Piper shouldn't get anywhere near that or even have to glimpse at the distorted ugliness that it reflects.

And really, Really, most definitely shouldn't make her smile at you the way she does when you try to put into words and explain all this nonsense to her.

She looks at you afterward as she has ever since all that went down.

As if you are absolutely everything that matters.

Scars and PTSD, broken mind, bleeding soul and all.

And it's seeing _that look_ and the sincerity of it rippling so placidly within the depth of those limpid blue lakes what has made you realize that the thing you own her most of all, the only way for you to get atonement for your mistakes and get close to redemption, is to keep your words and your vows and be here with her at your best. Be present, with every part of yourself in this reality you are living and have fought so hard for.

During your best moments when you- when _she _makes you feel whole - but also when you are that mess of sharp fragments made of night terrors, panic attacks and in-middle-of-the-night comfort sex.

"That's all I want." She has said to you, time and time again. Always patient. Eyes soft and teary, voice straining with the matching emotion fluttering and swelling within your chest, challenging your ribcage's capacity and closing up your throat.

"I just want you to heal and be with me." She has repeated over and over, meaning it every single time more, finding your hand (your injured one) and looking at you with the most beautiful breathtaking adoring smile that you still don't think you are deserving to have it addressed at you with such earnestness.

It has the power to shift your guilt about almost getting her killed, to feeling guilty for denying her the life you are supposed to have now, by slowing down your recovery progress with your reluctance.

And since you can only endure so much guilt at the time without going completely mad, and since, in a couple of months, it is no longer going to be _just_ you and Piper in your love equation, you have finally decided to just... go for it.

You have decided to take that initial, controversial advice.

Because even though you know that Piper wouldn't leave you, that she would still be at your side even if you decided to live in misery and guilt for the rest of your life, you'd feel less deserving of basking in the comforting glow of her searing affections if you won't put anything less than ALL of your efforts in trying to heal.

And that means that you'd have everything to lose if you failed.

So you give it a chance.

Swallowing your skepticism and pride, and... taking encouragement from the fact that since when you have started writing them down, _regularly_, on a journal, as instructed, in all their gory, awful details, the frequency of your nightmares has actually (much to your incredulity) diminished.

If only you had tried it earlier...

Now, the details branded in your mind no longer sizzle like burning coals.

The anguish that wraps around you in those moments where panic gets the best out of you is less constricting. Less suffocating.

Of course, it doesn't lessen the sense of powerless that you experience whenever you find yourself flung back there into that abandoned warehouse, where something always goes wrong.

Either you can't stab Kubra, or you do it over and over again and he just won't die and he keeps smiling that wicked, evil smile at you.

Sometimes you do kill him but then you just can't find his phone and call for help.

Others your body gets _so_ heavy, as if your bones had been infused with lead, that you are forced to crawl your way towards Piper's still body as if you had been crippled, and by the time you reach her, she has already bled out.

Sometimes instead... _you_ are the one holding the gun, pulling the trigger and_ shooting her_.

That is the scenario that used to be your tricky mind's favorite to play and torture you with.

There is no need for a psychologist to interpret such a dream. The guilt leaking from it is practically palpable in the air whenever you spring upright in bed at that awful, loud sound of the gun going off. Sometimes, you can feel the weight and coldness of the metal in your shaky, sweaty hand.

But now that you have adopted this method...

It's almost as if the sharp edges are getting blurred out enough for you to see the veil of the realm you are in and recognize that scenario for what it is: just a bad, terrible dream.

Sometimes you manage to tear yourself out of its claws on your own without jolting awake all sweaty and disoriented. Without having to run to the bathroom to empty your stomach. Without even stirring Piper from her own sleep, which is your main concern.

She shouldn't have to see you like that.

She has already, far too many times.

So yeah, pouring all the details and emotions you have just experienced in yet another nightmare and replay every single moment may be your new, least favorite thing to do, but you can endure that discomfort so much more easily than the guilt that has started gnawing less and less at you these days.

Maybe it has already chewed the hell out of you. Or maybe this... psychology trick you are playing (for once) on your own mind as payback for being such a bitch with you, is finally working on your favor.

Still, you keep the journal away and pull it out only during those nights. Keeping it hidden like a shameful vice. Tucked in between the wooden slats under your side of the bed, where you can easily reach it and put it away once you have finished scribbling down every nasty detail of your nightmare without doing much of a fuss and risk having Piper finding out about it.

No matter how gently she insists about you opening up, she shouldn't see any of that darkness that plagues you poured down on paper, but...

...it happens anyway.

**. . .**

It's actually been a while (well past a couple of weeks now) since your last entry, and maybe that's a good sign; the fact that you haven't been hunted by bad dreams for so long and that you have (consequently, temporarily) forgot about its existence.

Maybe the little fucker is being helpful in its own way after all.

It most definitely isn't though when it treacherously tumbles out from under the bed when you are flipping the mattress over and onto the cooler spring/summer side.

And of course,_ of course_ Piper just had to walk in carrying the clean set of sheets and pillowcases in that _exact_ moment.

Jesus Christ if she just doesn't have the _worst_ timing _ever_ sometimes...

The blasted thing falls and skids across the floorboards, knocking right against Piper's foot and stopping her right on her tracks.

At first, currently taken by the (heavy) task at hand and in the generally rushed movement, you don't even realize what it is.

But then you look down and instantly recognize the little black notebook.

Your heart stumbles to a halt within your chest. And your eyes widen with the same dread that sends a chill down your spine, stiffening your back and freezing you on the spot. Draining whatever trace of color off your face.

Good thing you have already flipped over and laid down the mattress onto the bed frame or else you would have been squashed under its bulky, unstable weight because of the sudden distraction.

You watch as Piper sets the set of clean and folded sheets and pillowcases on the dressed before she bends to pick it up along with the pencil that has slipped from its holder and rolled on the floor. A crease forms between her eyebrows but...

It's there only for a moment.

Underneath the panic and dread holding you hostage, preventing you to even breathe, least of all _move_ (despite the overwhelming urge to rush over her and snatch the blasted thing from her hands) you see it.

The moment realization replaces that look on her features. Smoothing out the wrinkle knitting her brow.

But you would have never, _ever_ not even in a million years, expected the soft, understanding smile that she gives you when she looks up, adorned with the affection rippling within the blue of her eyes.

She doesn't open it.

Doesn't ask you what it is.

Somehow, it's like she already _knows_.

She simply smiles at you that gorgeous smile filled with adoration, puts the pencil back in its holder and steps closer, rounding the bed.

Her gaze lingers on your (utterly terrified) one when she stops in front of you. And then, she leans in.

Receiving a kiss is yet another thing outside the realm of possibilities about what you would have expected. So that's why you inevitably tense up a little bit more and why you don't respond back to it immediately. But that tension doesn't stand a chance against the softness of Piper's lips, the gentleness of that affectionate peck, the tender, loving caress of her free hand reaching out and cupping your jaw. Your lips part of their own accord, surrendering to the blooming warmth that springs within you in spite of the circumstances. Eating the tension in your muscles away.

It both lasts for a short eternity and not long enough at the same time.

"I'm so proud of you." She whispers when she pulls back, handing you over the notebook.

And the sentiment in that statement, the truthfulness of those words, the understanding that you find reflected so warmly into those blue eyes... It's so bright and good and soothing that it's too easy for you to feel undeserving of it.

You look away from her as if you had been dazzled by sunlight. Jaw clenched. Eyes stinging with the tears rising from your throat. Fingers twitching angrily around the journal clutched in your hand.

"Sometimes I feel so useless that I don't even know what to do with myself."

It's not like you feel the need to justify your refusal and unworthiness of the sentiment that she has just expressed so candidly to you. Your tone is more pensive than anything else, but that intimate thought and belief tumble past your lips regardless. Out of their own volition. Straight from that vulnerable dark place that not even such piercing brightness should be able to breach. But it has. _Piper _has.

It feels... so oddly good and relieving though, saying it, sharing that... sentiment... out loud. You shouldn't be a stranger now in finding relief upon uttering (or writing down, you mentally add) your fears and worst nightmares. But Piper shouldn't have to hear this.

It's selfish.

And you have the confirmation when you see the way the awfulness of such statement, the heaviness of that truth, instantly weights on her like a ton of bricks, and fuck... _you idiot. _It only strikes you after a moment, when you see Piper's eyes widen, her lips parting in a muted gasp, that _maybe_ you should have thought a second longer about the phrasing instead of practically blurting out your pitying confession like that. Because the message in it and the thickness of your raw voice make it easy to misinterpret. Even for her.

"Alex... y-you're not thinking _about_-"

The words are rough and thick with the kind of dread that doesn't belong in her smooth, melodic voice, even less on her features, tainting that look of adoration and pride that you have caught there but a few moments ago.

"I'm not talking about doing anything hasty and dumb," You interrupt her, hoping that despite the tumult rampaging inside you, you still manage to sound convincing enough to soothe that sour doubt that you have just instilled in her with your careless wording.

It does, but it's hardly enough to reassure her all the way.

"It's just..." You stall, breathing out one long frustrated breath through your nose.

Fuck.

You really _don't_ wanna do it.

You don't want to transform your thoughts and feelings of powerlessness and guilt into words and let them spill from your lips, fill the space between the two of you and wander in the open, because (considering how easily they can turn you to shreds) who knows what kind of massive damage they would do given the chance to roam wildly.

That's why you have decided to trap those demons in a thread of black ink within the pages of a notebook where they have no way to escape from.

You wouldn't let them anywhere near Piper. Especially not now that she is giving life to something so... pure.

For a moment, as your gaze drops down to her front, you wonder if that small part of you growing in her belly is the only innocent, purely good part of you that has been left.

You heave yet another, hot, heavy, steadying breath through your nose. Frustrated and furious with yourself for not being able (not _wanting_) to express any of the feelings festering inside you.

It's not even anger. Not really.

It would be _so much_ easier if it were just that. Just something you could drop, or smash and let it shatter like a fist through a glass.

Sometimes... Sometimes you do even feel that kind of anger towards _her_. For doing something as stupid as throwing herself in front of a loaded gun.

But this, right now... that persisting resentment is not the feeling that is currently gnawing at you.

Your hand clenches at your side to contain the pain that keeps prickling there and that you are starting to think it has absolutely _nothing_ to do with your healed injury, leaving you with no other explanation than blaming it on reasons that are totally, completely psychosomatics at this point.

And yet there is that _twinge_ that starts right at the center of your palm and that crawls further up your arm, spreading in your ribcage and affecting your entire being.

Not even with all the eloquence in the world would you be able to describe how awful it feels.

Like having a cilice belt wrapped around your insides, lacing itself tighter every time your guilt takes the reins and _pulls_.

"Al..."

But Piper is _still_ here.

Devotedly, meticulously searching for the right thread to pull that would help you unfurl that uncomfortably tight knot and retract those rusty, blunt hooks from your tender, torn flesh with the nimble expertise and the softness of her carefully chosen words delivered by the even more soothing sound of her velvety voice and the tentatively firm touch of her hand as she reaches out to take yours.

So gentle and understanding despite the fact that you feel like you aren't making any sense.

But you do. To her.

It's all in her voice as she utters your name.

She sounds... _Safe._

So much so, that upon hearing it, the tension that was seizing your frame melts away with your next, shaky exhale.

Your fingers uncurl without you having to consciously will them to. Your hand blossoms open under the firm gentleness of her touch - like a withering flower brushed by sunlight, seeking the warmth and comfort and nourishment that only she can provide so thoroughly.

Tentatively, you lift your head, and this time, when a pair of fierce sapphire blue eyes lock with yours, you don't try to divert your gaze.

You couldn't even if you wanted to.

Because there is _something_ in the new, delicate softness and caution and fiery certainty that you see reflected into those pools that transfix you in place as adamantly as her next words do.

"You are all I ever wanted." She tells you so candid and matter-of-fact.

"All I needed even when I pretended that I didn't know it."

Weight and lightness coexist in that statement. Regret and a bare glimpse of shame in her conscientious choice of words.

She sounds so honest, so painfully earnest. The smile curling on her lips so soft with affection. The glint in her eyes so bright and fierce. And having that bare look paired with those tears... It's devastating.

You can think of just another time where she has been just as open and vulnerable with you.

Your argumentative (and sarcastic) nature that still works as your default defense mechanism, would have you counter on such statement, maybe even make a quip out of it by reminding her how things were during a specific time of your sentences, because you can think about a couple of occasions where her actions suggested that she _definitely_ wasn't in this state of mind to believe _any_ of the things she just confessed to you. But... The way she is looking at you right now, it cuts off whatever protest, and erases whatever doubt you might have had.

The whole point in healing is leaving the past behind anyway, not dwell in it.

You _can_ forgive without forgetting and remind each other to be better based on those past experiences.

But it's hard to move forward when...

"I'm broken." You tell her with a little shrug, lips twitching up in a smile that is more realistic and matter-of-factly than sad.

But Piper takes none of it.

She shakes her head.

"No, you're not." She denies as that smile returns and it dazzles you long enough that when she leans in and kisses you, you can't do anything other than surrender and respond.

It's soft and slow.

Until it isn't.

Your lips part to taste warmth.

And as the kiss builds, you _crumble_.

Piper pushes at your shoulders, urging you down onto the unmade, bare mattress, where she spends the next hour devotedly proving to you how wrong, and how _complete_ and _whole_ you actually _are_.

But it's only afterwards, when you are resting your head on her chest, taking comfort in being the one to be held for once, listening to the steady cadence of the muscle trapped underneath warm, flushed, sweat-slick skin and contained in a cage of bones, that her words truly sink in and the unraveled layers of your shredded soul start mending back together. _Again_.

It's... not like any other time though.

So maybe, whatever you are doing it _might_ be working.

And maybe, you think (reaching out with your hand and resting it on the firm swell of her belly, stroking it with the pad of your thumb and with a newly gained easiness and familiarity and... confidence that has erased all of your previous non-sense hesitance) your willingness to do better has another origin...

Maybe, deep down, that is what has motivated you enough to give this method a chance.

**. . .**

Piper speaks to the baby already.

A couple of times you have actually caught her absently humming some song while doing some homework and rubbing the growing bulge there.

It's... you really don't know _how_ to describe it or the way it makes you feel.

There is a tenderness in it, in the spontaneity and naturalness with which she does it, that makes your insides go all soft and warm leaving your mind kind of fuzzy.

It's... oddly soothing.

And you can't help but wonder if that's what the baby feels, too. If listening to Piper's suave, velvety voice somehow quiets it down when it's turning and kicking from inside her.

One day you find her there, resting her aching feet and sore back on the couch with a book on top of her round belly.

Nothing unusual about it.

If it wasn't for the fact that she is reading out loud.

"U-uh..."

You stutter in your steps as if you have just walked into something very private which is... as much of a ridiculous and irrational thought as it is. One that has every right to be addressed from Piper with a simple, distracted "What is it, Al..."

She doesn't even look up from the page she is reading - sighing as you imagine she must do whenever she gets interrupted at school while she is tending to one of her students - when she hears your steps faltering on the plank floor as you walk further into the living room.

"Uh... Nothing," You answer, suddenly feeling as if _you_ are the one who has been caught doing something odd. Even so, it takes a lot to hold back the little smile that inevitably tugs at your lips in front of such sight. It's a lost cause. You let it blooms when Piper finally lifts her gaze to meet yours with a curious arched eyebrow that is the equivalent of a question mark.

"It's just..." You resume, ready to elaborate, eyeing and then gesturing at the book in her hands. "I think that Oliver Twist is pretty much PG 13 so... perhaps it might not be the most appropriate kind of novel to be narrating to a seven months old fetus?"

You are wise enough to make your statement sound like a question, because you don't feel very much like doing or saying or assume _anything_ these days and risk triggering Piper's temper, which has become incredibly volatile and unpredictable in the past several weeks, thanks to her wildly fluttering hormones.

Much to your surprise though (and immense delight, and just as much relief) Piper smiles at you. Her lips stretching until a full grin has blossomed on her face.

"Well," She starts, and there is a mischievous little curl twitching at the corner of her mouth that might actually even resemble a smirk. "I thought I should have set the bar a bit higher from the average children's book. After all..." She explains, pausing, her smile widening enough to offer you a glimpse of her dimples. "...it is _your_ child I'm carrying."

It strikes you all at once.

That reminder.

"I'm willing to bet it's going to have your same tastes and a predilection for 19th-century literature."

You can't even tell if she is joking or not.

Maybe you _could_ actually be able to decipher that look if you currently weren't stuck in that _"your child I'm carrying"_ bit that has made your heartbeat stumble out of its rhythm and is now struggling to get back to its usual pace.

"Sometimes I forget about it." You mumble, distractedly, pensively, as you recover from that blow that has exploded within your belly and expanded in your chest in a series of rippling flutters.

"You mean... about how insanely attractive and tasteful your literature preferences are?" She asks, flashing you what surely looks like one of those awkward, still unpracticed, yet oddly charming smirks of hers that are that tiny bit too soft and laced with affection to appear straight-out cocky and seductive, even though that's what she was aiming for right now, apparently.

You chuckle at the attempt, rendered all the more amusing by the subtle, asymmetrical wiggle of her eyebrows.

"Careful," You warn her. "You know what compliments like that do to me."

They don't tend to go to your head or inflate your ego the way they do with her, but this one still affects you, although in a warmer, tingly kind of way that makes you feel oddly flattered.

"But no," You continue, taking back the reins of your rampant thoughts before they can carry you too far away. "I was thinking about the fact that it's actually... a little part of..." You pause, inhale a breath and swallow the emotions that flutter up into your throat from that little ripple in your chest. "..._of me_, that... you got in there."

There is no smartass quip or shameless flirt like "it's not the first time I've got a part of you inside me", or something less _suggestive_ and a bit more humorous and teasing like "glad you came to that realization _just_ on the seventh month, hon."

This time, there is only the most beautiful, tender smile glimmering just as softly into the blue surface of her eyes when she answers, looking directly at you while stroking her belly.

"It is."

And there is something in those two simple words, in that affirmation, in that even simpler yet purposeful gesture, that makes that sentiment cramped within your chest expand, flooding through your veins and making you tingle all over with a rush of... adrenaline infused with a drop of something dangerously stronger that makes you stand a bit taller. A sense of fulfillment and... satisfaction in that fact, that almost borders into... _pride_.

And yet... there is this other, smaller, softly hushed part of you that, ever since you have decided to go for the whole procedure, has kept you wondering if...

"You're okay with that... _right?_"

You wince at the bluntness of the question you never really intended to ask out loud but that slips past your lips without you being able to stop it. Maybe (unconsciously) you don't even want to, but it still doesn't stop you from cringing even harder at the hesitation adding weight to your words, making your voice sounds foreign to your own ears.

The inquiry itself (rightfully so) earns you a little head-tilt of confusion matched by an equally puzzled little smile and a slightly furrowed brow.

"I mean..." You pause, doing all you can to slip back into your usual composure as elegantly and nonchalantly as you are able to in order to elaborate, as if you aren't already feeling the heat of awkwardness making its unfamiliar way up your neck despite all of your efforts to keep it at bay.

You don't let it stop you though. "I know this wasn't the original plan a-and..."

_Oh for the love of-_

You really must be a sight like this. Stumbling over words, your trademark eloquence nowhere in sight to rescue you, leaving you there to make your amateurish way into this kind of talk as a fawn wobbling its silly, careless, unaware self right into a minefield would do. You can already tell - judging by the way the smile on Piper's lips stretches that tiny bit more, so subtly, yet enough to become considerably more noticeable - how _enjoyable_ this is for her.

She must be savoring this like some tasty delicacy.

Or... maybe not so much.

Because there is a certain, unexpected softness in that gentle curl of her lips that soothes the uncomfortable, mild sting of embarrassment itching on the back of your neck.

"It's just..." You try again, encouraged by that tender smile yet frustrated with yourself when you can't come up with a proper, _sensible_ way to discuss her little... infertility problem and your role in the whole "let's make a baby" recipe by volunteering to add your... uh... _eggs_... in the mix since she didn't have enough of her own to successfully..._ bake the cake._

Ugh.

Bad, _terrible_ (yet appropriate) analogy.

For a moment, she looks like she might leave you there, entertain herself by watching you squirm into your own awkwardness while you try to extricate yourself from the delicate web you have gotten yourself trapped into with an uncharacteristic clumsiness that doesn't belong to you and that is so neatly, tremendously in contrast with your usual eloquence to make the whole conversation all the more embarrassing.

But then...

Before the discomfort can really get a chance to sink in for the rest of the way, Piper closes her book, setting it aside on the coffee table and gesturing you to get closer.

"Come over here..."

The invitation is as soft as the affection rippling so placidly into the blue of her eyes under that justifiable, thin layer of amusement.

It's incredible.

How she can have this kind of power over you with so little. How she can compel you with a few words and just one look.

It's mutual though.

Since you still have the exact effect on her, too.

You try to pin the tremendous effectiveness of this one on your current need for reassurance, on the itching necessity to get rid of the awkwardness clinging to you like an uncomfortable skin-tight dress, but you know better.

You make your way towards her, trying to regain your usual demeanor as you round the coffee table and take a seat just beside her on the couch.

Her composure changes once you get this close. Emotions surface and even though that trace of... amusement and might still be there adorning her features, her expression grows a bit more pensive and her smile, as well as her eyes, turn a bit sad in a controversial happiness. Something tightens in your chest.

"I'm not going to lie and say that I'm not a bit disappointed that I couldn't... You know."_ Get pregnant and have a child of my own._ Her voice is quiet. As if speaking any louder would diminish that... ache... that you know she still feels about the whole situation despite how unexpectedly well things have turned out in the end with the in vitro procedure.

"But _this_..." She continues, and just like that, some of her usual confidence finds its way back into her voice, and with it, the smile on her lips twitches into something positive and pleasant. Like gratefulness. The light in her eyes charging with the same bright, dazzling joy that you have seen that day at the clinic when you first heard the second heartbeat thrumming strong and steady from her belly.

She strokes the roundness of it up and down with such care and tenderness that puts on display all of that primal instinct and protectiveness and... affection... that she has started to develop and that has started to show more and more plainly with every inch her stomach has grown in the past several months.

"It is yours," Piper repeats, and those that you see welling up in her eyes are definitely tears. Shimmering so beautifully when she adds, "But it feels like a part of me, _too_."

She didn't have to complete her statement.

That look, that simple gesture, the smile stretching wider on her lips and the tears that gather in her eyes say it all, tightening a knot of emotions in your throat that actually hurts when you try to swallow it down in order not to choke on it.

You never made it much of a problem crying in front of her before.

It happened. Mostly in bad, awful situations.

Sure, you used to avoid it, whenever it was possible.

But now, after all that happened, you no longer feel the need to mask your feelings and hide away whenever those raw emotions surface. You no longer feel the need to protect your badass reputation and not give her the satisfaction of seeing you so open and vulnerable.

You have gone through hell together.

And got married on the way back, when you were just crawling your way out of that abyssal pit.

Nonetheless, you have a feeling that if you'd surrender to the tears that are already filling your eyes and tightening your throat, you'll probably never stop.

"It _is_." You tell her, firmly, smiling a twitchy emotional smile and reaching out and slipping your hand into hers, resting them both on her belly.

And then, in an attempt to dodge the increasingly possible outcome that will have you surrender to the emotions that have started blurring your vision, you decide to change the tone of the conversation by tactically using a nice dose of humor as lenitive.

"Besides..." You pause, subtly clearing your throat to get rid of the roughness sticking in your voice. "You are the one doing all the heavy work." You point out, daring a smirk.

It is returned in kind. Or... as much of it as she can manage. Her eyes brighten up, glinting with an unmistakable dose of mischief.

"And you are the one promptly meeting each one of my whims."

Strangely enough, the dominant in you, doesn't get bruised upon listening to that reminder. It would be pointless. You may be a top, but even in between all the tactical, unsufferable teasing, you always,_ always_ put her needs first.

You are about to tell her so (and tease her about it with the same amount of mischief) when she releases an unexpected yawn.

Her mouth opens wide, like the jaws of a snake, offering you a thoroughly clear view of her tonsils before she reminds to cover herself with her hand.

"Sorry..." She mutters apologetically as a lovely, familiar shade of self-consciousness and embarrassment tinges her cheeks and has her squirm just as awkwardly on her seat.

"It's okay." You reassure her, chuckling softly, watching her closely and taking notice of the tiredness weighing on her features. "Would you like to go to bed and take a nap?"

It would be her second one today. And it wouldn't be surprising if she ended up taking another one later in the afternoon. She's been quite lethargic lately. Dozing off right in the middle of doing stuff. Like a narcoleptic.

It's quite amusing actually.

Deeply entertaining.

And yeah... quite an adorable sight, too.

You watch her as she gnaws at her bottom lip, pensively, considering her options until she comes up with a decision.

"Actually..."

You recognize that look (as well as the tentativeness in that tone) in an instant. Soft and laced with that tiny bit of self-consciousness that has her gaze skid away.

She _wants_ something.

"Nuh uh," You shake your head in negative as soon as you realize what _that_ might be, given the hour. "I'm not going to Dunkin Donuts to grab your two pm cruller fix, you sugar junkie."

There are like a million degrees outside, and you are truly trying to get her off the sugary, deep fried, generally unhealthy stuff she constantly craves.

However, it seems that that's not what Piper was about to ask you given that she doesn't gasp in offense or tries to flirt her way into getting her afternoon' sweet treat.

Her cheeks gain an even brighter shade of pink, deepening her blush at your warning, but she shakes her head in negative.

"A-actually," Yep, she stutters and then bites her lip. Which is really saying something about how embarrassed she is in making her request. "I was going to ask you if... you would like to... lay down here with me for a while?"

_Oh._

The amused smirk tugging at the corner of your mouth falters immediately in front of such a hesitant request.

There is so much tentativeness in her voice when there should be none. But hearing it still has your heart do a little flip on itself.

And this display actually confirms your theory about how... Emotionally sensitive she has grown in the past week.

There isn't that look on her face right now. The one that she always has when she is determined to get what she wants. This time there is just that plain, far more naked and vulnerable need for closeness and intimacy.

Definitely not something you would ever deny to her. Or to yourself, given the warmth that pools in your belly at the thought.

And so you smile at her. For once not teasingly. Just... Soft and understanding.

"Of course." You reply, and the grin that you receive back, still dashed with that lovely shade of pink... it's simply unfair how powerful it is, and how strongly it affects you.

"You don't have to go to pee again first, do you?" You tease her lightly.

The glare she flashes you it's totally inefficient when dashed with that cute pink flush, but she shakes her head, so, with that confirmation, you lay down behind her.

Your bed would be far more ideal and far more comfortable given Piper's condition and her, uh... increasing girth, but the air is cooler here in the living room, and the couch is pretty large anyways, allowing you to arrange your bodies into the same familiar position. You help her get settled, grabbing a couple of pillows to rest under your heads, especially under Piper's to keep her properly propped up, or else she would snore.

"I would not."

She _so_ would.

But her protest is weak. A barely audible mumble of words slurred and rendered even more difficult to comprehend by the sleep tugging heavily at her awareness and heightening on her eyelids.

You chuckle and smile affectionately down at her. Encouraging her to surrender deeper into that other realm by planting a few soporific kisses on her shoulder and idly running your hand up and down her arm in an equally sleep-inducing manner.

"Al?"

_"Mh?"_

"I'm... glad things worked out this way."

You don't even have to wonder what she might mean by that. And if she didn't take your hand and laid it on her belly you think you would have still got the unspoken "I'm glad you are the one who got me pregnant" part.

Luckily, this time, you don't have to look away in order to hide the tears that well up in your eyes once again.

"Me too," You reply eventually, swallowing down the emotion that gets stuck in your throat and using the same old tactic of humor to help you maintain the hold on your crumbling composure. "Because dealing with another, smaller version of you would have been such an _exhausting_-OW!"

She elbows you on the ribs before you can finish.

Totally deserved.

It hurts a little but you can't help the smile and (pained) chuckle that slips past your lips when she warns you by telling you that "Genetic markers are a thing, but there is also parenting influence and other, several environmental conditioning to take into consideration, you know."

God... even when she can barely keep her eyes open and is surrendering to the call of sleep she can't resist getting into her endearing dorky-geek mode give the chance.

"The baby could _still_ take up my attitude as well as some of my mannerisms." She points out, and that's the last thing she mumbles before finally yielding to slumber, humming in contentment from a whole other dimension.

You are not that tired, but there is nowhere else in the world you'd rather be than here. Spooning your wife. Stroking the firm swell of her grown belly. And... listening as her quiet, even breathing turns into a soft snore.

Drowsiness settles deep within your bones after a while, proving you wrong about not being tired and challenging your own resolution to stay awake, but the moment is so tremendously peaceful that you resist it. Not wanting to miss a second of it. Reveling in the calmness that engulfs your insides and spreads down your limbs, soothing your troubled, still frayed, yet healing soul, providing warmth just like the early afternoon glow that filters through the blinds and caresses Piper's skin oh so gently, complimenting her complexion with its flattering warmth.

You take it all in and let this precious moment of quietness heal you up enough to think that maybe, after all you have been through, you might actually deserve this.

Something vibrates under your hand. A little stirring motion coming from within Piper's belly. And it takes you a lot not to take that unconscious, primal movement as some kind of sign.

Your lips curl up into a smile anyway.

But it's only when you are sure that Piper is truly fast asleep that you utter your answer (and wish) to her previous geek argument.

Because, god... If you start thinking about all of her habits and little quirks like... the way her nose unconsciously scrunches up a little and twitches in the most adorable way whenever she dreams, then "I really hope she will."

**. . .**

Things are... good.

Not great. Not ideal. But optimistically good. In a way you wouldn't have believed (least of all hoped) things were going to be after your release.

Guilt (and its predilection and gluttony for your fears) is no longer eating at you with the same voracity you were used to, something for which you know you have to give credit to your new approach regarding your nightmares and in writing them down whenever they occur. Which is less and less frequent.

As far as your about-to-become-a-parent anxiety is concerned... Well... That's the most terrifyingly surprising thing of all.

Because while there might be a part of you that (for how small and well hidden) might still find the whole situation hard to believe (which you guess might be due to whatever remnant of your previous life - and the person you used to be - that you have carried through for this long) there is another part of you (the you that has gone through prison, multiple kidnappings, attempted murders and far more psychological trauma than any human being shouldn't have to go through in an entire lifetime) that has you believe that this might truly be your chance to make things right. To prove yourself worthy of something good after so much wrongdoing. Something you deserve after having nearly drowned in guilt and anguish with the weight of your mistakes pulling you further down.

You aren't using this whole... terrifyingly thrilling opportunity as an excuse to heal but... you can't pretend that some of the darkness in you hasn't been cast away already.

Things have gained a new light, or maybe the new circumstances have had you chose another lens and angulation to see the world surrounding you. Which no longer seems to be made by sinister shadows.

It's far too hopeful think that by the time the baby will be born you'll have fully recovered but... getting as close to that goal is definitely one of the reasons that keeps you committed to the program, to your therapy sessions, something that motivates you and urges you to get better before you'll welcome something so small and innocent in your life who is going to need you at your best.

You think about months ago, when you first came up with the subject and blurted out Piper's wish to Doctor Campbell in her study and she told you that you could have found an unexpected benefit that would have helped your healing process.

You remember the skepticism and unwillingness to get into it because of such reason. You remember getting angry for the simple suggestion itself.

But... you can't deny it now. Because, in a way, even if the baby isn't born yet, it is already giving you purpose.

And that, along with Piper's general well being and happiness (and doing everything you can to ensure it, even if you don't have many means right now), is more than enough to start feeling good again.

Not just afraid.

No longer so paranoid.

No more so terrorized to get your whole world ripped away from you.

In fact, you feel good enough to lower your guard a little.

To grant yourself a slightly larger breathing space from all your troubles, and...

And you should have known better than allow yourself to do that.

But, once again, as it is your curse, you'll only get to that mistake _later_.

**. . .**

By the time everything is ready, summer has arrived.

Tremendously hot and unbearably humid in a subtropical way.

If not ideal though, at least the season gives Piper some proper rest since she has stubbornly refused to go on maternity leave _before_ the school closed up, taking advantage of the summer break and smartly saving those days for the next, several months ahead instead.

The room- _nursery_ is ready and still faintly smelling of paint.

The crib that Cal has given you has been assembled along with the two dressers.

And... you may have bought a couple plushies, too, which, of course, hasn't spared you from Piper's tenderly amused smile and a nice dose of teasing, which, for how innocent, may still have elicited that no-longer-so-foreign heat to crawl up your neck when she caught you there, setting the stuffed little dragon and slightly larger, long-limbed sloth on the dresser as decorations, twisting them to face the crib. Such an unusual pair, but they are funny looking and _so soft_. No matter how cuddly they look though, because for now (and for the next twelve months) their purpose is going to be exclusively decorative. After all, you have been keeping yourself informed, and you have done a great deal of reading about what _is_ and _isn't_ safe to have around infants.

Most importantly, though, by the time you are fully accessorized, Piper is just a few weeks away from popping.

You have clothes along with all the essential stuff. And you are pretty sure that whatever non-so-essential, futuristic kind of breast pump or whatever equipment spit out from a sci-fi movie you don't have (or even ignore exists), Polly and Neri and the very few other female acquaintances that Piper has, are going to provide it at the baby shower that she has been delaying for two months by using the most colorful vastness of excuses, keeping them just barely over the line of believable to avoid too many suspicions.

It's not like you can blame her though for still being afraid of something going wrong, of not being ready, even now- _especially now_ that she is approaching the finish line.

"All those who are about to become a parent experience that feeling, Alex. It's normal." Your therapists said to you, her eyes soft and kind. Her smile just as reassuring and gently warm when you have gone so far to openly express your uncertainties to her. But you felt none of that comfort.

There was something _else_ that couldn't be soothed by mere words.

The kind of feeling that you have ended up developing over the years. Result from experience.

Because when everything is good and quiet and seemingly manageable, then you just _know_ that something unpleasant or even distressing _must_ be about to happen.

It's pretty fucked up, you know it.

But that's how it is.

That's how it's always been between you and Piper, actually.

It's been a part of your controversial _normalcy_ for as long as you remember.

And you hate the fact that you have become the kind of (damaged) person who has gotten used to _expecting _for something wrong and awful to happen.

No matter how much progress (according to your therapist's professional assessment) you have done in the past ten months or so, you can only push aside your concerns for a limited amount of time before they resurface more vicious than ever.

Maybe (for how contentious) it's a good thing that you keep being afraid though.

Something about not having lost your humanity despite all the monstrous, inhuman (which are actually very, _painfully human_) things that you have done with the excuse of self-preservation. Of survival. Of... _protection_.

You had control then.

You lose whatever hold on it you thought you had during one fateful day that starts far too similarly like that one eventful night...

**. . .**

You should have known better.

You should have sensed it coming.

And the thing for which you reprimand yourself most of all with no excuses, is that you shouldn't have allowed yourself to relax and _think_, even just for a minute, that, _for once_, things were going smoothly and that they would have turned out fine.

It's like you haven't learned a single lesson about the way things always turn out for you.

**. . .**

It's just a hot, steamy summer late morning like many others you have had in the past week.

Far too hot to be spent outside or doing something around the house.

Anything that doesn't involve sitting under the spinning ceiling fan seems pretty much impossible to accomplish.

The sky is darkening outside though, promising what you really hope is going to be some refreshing rain to relieve the gasping city from some of the humidity that seems to have turned air into vapor. It's encouraging, but that's just how you have been feeling these past several days. Enough that you are actually doing something as optimistic as hopefully searching for some boringly honest work on the web (or... maybe even some professional training courses) for when you'll be finally left off the hook by your therapist and the feds.

Just... one typical morning.

Until it isn't.

And maybe... Maybe, what has brought you to seek a distraction in this way, has been the need to try and dismiss the paranoid thought that there was something wrong.

You have never hated as much being right as you do when you hear it.

"ALEX!"

Piper's anguished, panicked, horrific scream carries down the hallway and booms inside your chest like a bomb going off, shaking you down to your bones, making you spring from the stool you have been perched on at the kitchen island, lazily scrolling through job advertisements on her laptop, with enough force to send it clattering on the plank floor as you rush, as fast as your feet can carry you, with your heart pumping in your throat and your insides pierced by the spikes of your fears sprung back to life like a vine, towards the bathroom.

It is no longer just a lazy, tremendously hot, stormy summer day when you find her there, short-winded, face sweaty and scrunched up in pain, weakly leaning against the sink with one shaky hand, while the other rests underneath her heavy, swollen belly, just above-

"A_-Al-_"

"Oh god..."

You freeze on the spot, your blood running cold and turning into splinters of ice within your veins when your gaze gets drawn lower, to the crimson stain spreading at the front of her white sleep shorts.

"What... the hell _happened_?"

"I-I don't- I was j-just- AH!" A new, fierce stab of pain cuts off her answer as she doubles over, whimpering, panting.

And it's the sight of her knees threatening to give in what snaps you out from your trance.

You grab her just in time before she can fall, holding her up and then helping her sit down against the side of the tub, and it's only then that you notice the thick trickles of blood running down the inside of her legs.

There is a smear on her upper thigh and when you look down... you find that there is blood on your hands.

It happens slowly.

So slowly that at first, you don't even realize what is happening, and then, it all just rushes forward before you are given the chance to brace yourself for it.

Something in your head clicks. The beating muscle in your chest gives one forceful, sickening thump at the sight of it, at the _feeling_ of it. Warm. Slippery between your fingers. Awfully _wrong_. And yet familiar. In a way you have been desperately wishing you could only forget.

That's all it takes to trigger that memory that you have been trying to push against the farthest, most remote corner of your mind with all your might.

The brutality with which you get pulled back down in that pit, is as unforgiving and as the wicked, vicious smack of the rusty pipe colliding against the side of your head.

It's so violent and sudden that it disorients you. Leaving you unable to feel anything else beside the sickening, throbbing pain on the side of your head, and the rush of blood in your ringing ears.

You are deaf to anything.

Unable to see even though your eyes are open.

But you can still _smell it_.

The sharp, unmistakable smell of gasoline prickling at your nose and itching in the back of your throat when you inhale.

_No..._

No, no, no, NO!

Your breathing grows erratic.

Cold sweat breaks out on your forehead. And an icy shiver runs down your spine. You blink in a desperate attempt to regain focus into reality but... there is no use.

And if you distantly register the feeling of... something wrapping around your upper arm, trying to anchor you, it's too late.

You are already sinking.

Plunging back there, into that bottomless, swirling abyss.

Forced to relive it all.

The next time you open your eyes, the surrounding of the abandoned warehouse greets you with all its sharp shadows and the stench of doom.

Kubra's dead, empty, wide eyes stare right at you from a few feet away. A shard of glass sticking from his neck. Arterial, bright red blood pooling around his motionless body.

Your stomach churns at the sight.

But it's nothing compared to how the rest of your insides twist on themselves when a soft, barely audible whimper of pain gets your attention and you glance down where she is laying on the ground.

Piper.

Bleeding out.

Barely breathing.

The hand resting underneath your injured, hurting, bleeding one and pressed against her own wounded side, is slackening.

No...

Panic sinks its fangs onto you, latching hard and paralyzing you in place with its poisonous bite.

"No... No, no, no, no _please_!"

You see the light in her blue eyes fading away.

And yet, she struggles with all her might to keep them open and locked on your face.

Memorizing every detail, tracing every single feature with the most thorough care.

_"Alex..."_

It's so feeble that it almost gets lost under the painful ringing and deafening rush of blood in your ears.

Your gaze locks on her lips, but they aren't moving.

It's unquestionably her voice, but it's not coming from her.

_"Alex...Come back."_

It's more like an echo that comes from so distant that you can barely hear it. But you still recognize it.

It reaches you as if your head had been pushed underwater.

"Alex please..."

It tugs at your slipping consciousness more loudly and makes your heartstrings vibrate.

"Please!_ I need you_..."

The urgency in that plea reaches a part of you that you thought had been fallen under the domain of fear like the rest of you had, but hearing it shakes you to the very core of your being, stirring something primal within you.

And _that_, along with the feeling of what you recognize being a hand wrapping tightly around your wrist and _tugging_ forcefully, is what drags you up from underneath the surface, tearing you out from that abyss where your worst nightmares have taken advantage of the situation and dragged you straight into their lair. Like a pack of starved, rabid wolves ready to feast on you.

You blink rapidly, shocked back into the present and greeted by the blue tiles surrounding your bathroom and the sight of Piper's sweaty, pained, frightened face resting right in front of you. One of her hands wrapped tightly around your wrist, the other laying underneath her swollen belly.

"I'm-" _back _"here." You assure her, shaking off the remaining icy chill on your back and letting it melt away while trying to get your ragged, frantic breathing to return to something resembling normalcy and swallow the acid pooled in the back of your throat. Fighting off the fresh wave of nausea that assaults you when, with your uncooperative and shaky hands you try to dig your phone out from your shorts' pocket.

You might be back, but the wound in your hand, the deep gash that was there but a moment ago and that has now been replaced by an ugly scar in the blink of an eye, feels as fresh as that night. The excruciating pain of torn tendons and dislocated joints seems to have followed you back into the spinning present. Throbbing and burning all the way up your arm and into your skull.

Your stomach churns again, even more viciously than before with the urge to vomit, your sight is swaying and blurring at the overwhelming pull of unconsciousness, but you fight it.

Like Piper did for you that night.

Inside that blue terrorized gaze, you find the strength to do it.

"We need... to get to the h-hospital." She wheezes in between shallow breaths.

And even though you hate with every single cell of your being seeing the panic widening her eyes into desperation, as if the pain contorting her features wasn't unbearable enough on its own, you still take comfort in hearing her voice. Pained as it is, it functions as a safety rope that keeps you anchored, even though you almost get dragged back into that pit again in the moment you glance down at your phone.

Held between your hands.

Red and sticky with her blood.

You don't pause. Don't give your demons the chance to catch up and tackle you again. You doubt you'll have the strength to get back on your feet otherwise.

Somehow, you find a way to make your incapacitated hand move, to will away that ghostly pain and guide your thumb to dial 911, keeping your eyes locked with Piper's wide, scared blue ones, and reaching out to rest your other hand on her belly.

Grounding you to this reality, and silently begging to whoever might be listening, to not let you slip back into that nightmare again when you bring the phone to your ear and the operator's voice echoes from the past with a monotone_ "911, what's your emergency?"_

**. . .**

On the rushed ride to the hospital, the panic throbbing within your chest, burning in your veins like corrosive acid, and echoing in your head like a gunshot, is far more deafening than the siren blaring inside the ambulance.

**. . .**

There is a light, hissing draft filling the otherwise empty, disturbingly quiet hallway.

All the windows lining it and facing the streets below are slid open, letting in a breeze that you would actually find pleasant if the current circumstances hadn't numbed you with anything else but that same old sickening fear.

As you breathe in and out though, trying to make the rest of your own way out from that tar pit, you can smell the humidity in the air.

It teases your staved-off lungs like a puff of vapor blown in your face. Denying them of the oxygen you need, feeling the way it sticks to your sweaty skin, and yet, when the wind blows a bit harder a few moments later, the gust that comes through the opened window is surprisingly, suddenly much colder. Almost autumnal.

Harbingering what is most likely going to be a summer storm with the devastating force of a hurricane.

A memory pushes through at the sight of the dark clouds riding high at the horizon.

It reminds you of that time in Panama, when you and Piper had to hole up and pass time playing strip poker and drinking tequila within the shaky walls of your rented bungalow while something awfully similar to a tropical storm raged outside.

The sky has turned black. The quickly approaching clouds are so thick to not allow a single ray of sun to filter through, only silent forked lightning, just like that time in Bocas del Toro.

The memory is like a fossil; cracked and locked in another time. Dug up after what seems like a million years ago. Part of you wonders how did it even manage to come to the surface from back when you weren't afraid of anything and didn't startle at the sound of an old car backfiring, or panic at the ear-splitting siren of an ambulance passing by, or felt the urge to throw up at the sharp, toxic smell of gasoline.

Your idea of fear was a whole other thing back then.

You used to find it empowering.

Part of you lived for its... intoxicating _thrill_.

But that's only because no one was trying to tear away from you the woman you loved- your entire world in the most brutal, sudden way. _Again_. And there was none of that unbearable weight of guilt crushing you upon realizing that you were the only one to blame for such an outcome.

You can't help but wonder if you are to blame even now...

Your gaze drops downwards, on your (still shaky) hands as you turn around.

_Once again,_ there is her dried blood stuck underneath your fingernails.

And when you look up,_ once again,_ there is nothing but a thick glass window separating you from her.

You would have never thought that one day - one of the most important days of your lives no less - you would have been the one to deliberately seek for such distance and cowardly hide behind one of these thick, reinforced windows. To imprison and lock yourself away from her in such way.

She shouldn't be alone.

For a moment you consider calling her parents or Cal.

Because while a part of you desperately longs to enter and be there in that room with her, hold her hand and reassure her like you may have pictured yourself doing, you can't bring yourself to actually _do it_.

Because what kind of use are you to her like... like _this_?

You are a husk.

A bottomless vessel of grief and remorse and guilt unable to get over that event and that cannot be emptied.

No matter how hard you have tried.

And god... you have_ tried._

But you only now realize that you haven't made one single progress at all.

It's part of you. Of who you are.

Even just the smell of disinfectant swimming in the hallway where you are standing is provoking your gag reflex, and if it wasn't for the opened windows there is no doubt that you'd give in to that urge.

The claws of anguish keep tearing at the seams of your frayed mind, stripping you down of the control you had deluded yourself you had gained in the past several months.

No... You decide.

It's probably best if you don't get inside that room.

You may very well be the last person on the planet who's able to provide comfort in this moment. You can barely keep your shit together right now.

And the most pitiful thing you can do is will your hands to stop from shaking, bend over and try to draw in a deep breath, but you don't trust yourself to close your eyes as you do so, because who knows what kind of horrors are just there, waiting to ambush you behind your eyelids.

So you keep them open and locked on the homogeneous, sterile-white, vinyl hospital floor and the contrasting dark gray outline of your own crunched shadow cast by the flickering led lamps on the ceiling.

...Not even hearing the sounds of steps or paying attention to the new shadow nearing your own when a figure approaches you.

"You look like shit."

You startle upright at the sound of that voice, of that drawl and accent, of that sudden presence beside you in the deserted hallway, and... when you see her, standing there beside you, you know that the last bit of your sanity has finally shattered and that you have officially, irretrievably lost your mind.

But even when you are pretty certain that you might be having some kind of panic induced hallucination, you still find yourself stammering "You... You shouldn't be here."

The wide-eyed, incredulous look on your face and the blunt statement earns you a perfectly sculpted, arched eyebrow. But the glint of amusement that you catch in those eyes and in the narrow quirk at the corner of that mouth deprives such expression from whatever sharpness and offense it might have been holding.

"Now, is that the way to greet me after all this time?"

And fuck, that scolding look actually manages to make you bristle and_ squirm_ self-consciously on the spot. Which... should make you feel ridiculous, especially since you realize that this is probably some wicked trick played by your mind, telling you how irreparably far gone you actually _are_.

But... the way that sharp, piercing blue gaze pins you down feels... _so real._

So painfully familiar.

"I must be losing my mind." You mumble, closing your eyes and shaking your head.

"Well... That wouldn't be the first time now, would it?"

Your eyes narrow, jaw clenching, but she doesn't look one bit affected by the severity of that expression. If anything, judging by that perfectly sculpted arched eyebrow, she looks unimpressed, just like she seems to be by the tone in your voice when you decide to just ask her "What are you doing here?"

The most minute smile twitches on her wrinkled lips, subtle, yet not enough to mask that curl of what you confirm being indeed amusement. "I hope you didn't think I was going to miss the birth of my grandchild, or did you?"

It startles you.

How the...

How can _she_-

Your lips part but no sound, no answer, or question, _nothing_ comes out except for a hiss of air as your lungs suck in a breath.

And since you take too long to process _all of this_ and utter a single word, she dismisses your inarticulateness and turns towards the window overlooking the delivery room and the buzzing commotion of movement going inside it.

"She seems to be doing good." She comments with an approving nod, and that barely hinted smile that you have noticed a few moments ago seems to grow into something slightly more visible at the observation before she turns once again towards you. "Although, I have to say, that you are the one who looks more in need of some _pushing_ right now."

Perhaps, in other circumstances, you would have maybe even caught the unexpected pun in that comment and reacted with the kind of shock it would have elicited in you.

"I can't go in there." You state, shaking your head and swallowing the balled up barbed wire that has lodged itself in your throat.

Under the surge of panic that spikes inside you at the prospect of walking into that room, you think that you actually deserve the_ "why the fuck not?" _look paired with the scolding, deeply furrowed brow that you receive back.

She isn't going to ask it out loud. Of course not.

That look alone demands explanation on its own.

After all, she always had a way to... _intimidate_ with just one glance. A glower worse than her mean bark and nasty bite that most of the times did the job all by itself.

And while you have never fallen victim of its devastating effect, the fact that this time it might actually affect you a bit makes you grow impossibly more frustrated with yourself.

"I'm so fucking tired of feeling this way." You don't mean to say it out loud. The words slip past your lips at your next long, exhausted exhale, but it hardly matters if she hears you. She already knows why you are _out here_ instead of inside _that room_, with your wife, where you are supposed to be instead of having another pity-party and doing the impossible to not slip into another flashback.

It's starting to feel a lot like some maddening loop.

Is it ever going to end? But you already know the answer. You already know that the only way to end it once and for all, is for you to find a way to get rid of... of that crippling powerlessness that has put roots in your bones. And there is only one way you can eradicate them.

"It's not the first time you have dealt with it." She points out. So matter of factly. So blunt and head on. Just like you remember her. Your lips might even twitch into a grimacing smile, and...

_Wait._

Did you actually just ask that question out loud _or_...?

"So straighten up. I don't want to see any of that insecure bullshit." She interrupts your train of thoughts with that well-deserved reprimand, eyeing you up and down with that familiar sneer of disapproval and shaking her head at the foreign sight of your slouched posture that shows all of your exhaustion and struggles to maintain your grip on your slippery, fractured control. "It's not a look that suits you."

You have to overpower the urge to shrink a little with embarrassment that you instantly feel upon hearing that.

But she is right.

She usually was.

You duck your head, clench your fists at your side and swallow hard.

These emotions battling within you have a way to make you feel a stranger inside your own body.

You have grown_ so _tired of it.

But, like she just told you, you do know what you should be doing to get rid of them definitively.

After all, despite the rebuke and the way it stirs something akin to self-consciousness inside you, her presence also reminds you that you aren't the only one who knows something about being cornered and tied up and having nothing else but your own fierceness to face the biggest fear of all.

The one (in your case) that has almost successfully dragged away from you the only person who has truly mattered to you. The only one you have ever loved with everything you are.

You were powerless then, but you reacted.

_Both times._

You can't be a free woman only to be jailed by your own fears for the rest of your life.

You can't be a prisoner forever.

You can't be a fugitive either. Running and running, distancing yourself enough to have you believe that you might have _finally_ outrun them, only to end up ambushed and tackled down at the next turn while you are still looking back.

No way.

You _refuse_ such fate.

For the first time in over an hour, your breathing and heartbeat ease into something less frantic. Slowly adjusting into a proper rhythm that helps in clearing your mind, and you can't help but wonder if it has anything to do with the unyielding resolution that has just possessed you.

Your shoulders roll back, and your spine straightens up with a purpose that makes your... _unexpected_ (probably hallucinatory) visitor, look at you with her chin held high, nodding with renewed respect and pride.

"That's better." She approves.

"Now go in there." She orders, swiftly tilting her chin towards the delivery room and using that tone that you have always known better than question or even meet with a doubtful look.

"She _needs you_." She presses on, the sharpness of her voice smoothing out and leaving space to that note of warmth to seep through.

An unexpected little smile twitches at the corner of your mouth upon hearing that, because, truth be told, "Piper has been far stronger and fearless than I haven't been today." You say, and, for once, the pride swelling within your chest as you utter that sincere sentiment almost makes you forget all about the sting of powerlessness that is still there, itching from that spot behind your sternum that it seems to have claimed as its own.

"I don't doubt it." She answers, and for a moment her usually stoic expression shifts, her piercing, fierce blue eyes grow softer as a small, knowing, proud little smile curls on her lips as well when she glances back into the delivery room and all the commotion going on inside it. Her gaze lingers there for a moment longer before she turns towards you once again.

"But I wasn't talking about _her_."

Your eyebrows knit into a frown, puzzled, confused.

"Then who were you...?"

That sharp blue gaze softens even more, and so do her aged features, shaping into something tender and affectionate that you have witnessed just a few times before and with just a handful of people.

"_Your daughter_."

Something in your chest comes crashing to a halt right before it goes on overdrive, swelling to double its size to contain a whole new horde of emotions.

The words seem to echo in the hallway, or maybe they just do so in your head, which snaps towards the window facing the room where they have wheeled Piper in barely ten minutes ago, and from where you can see a half dozen of doctors and nurses getting ready to perform an emergency c-sec on your wife.

"_How-_"

The hospital lights flicker and buzz again above your head, trembling in the quickly approaching, roaring storm.

You blink to regain focus, but when you turn around, the hallway is empty.

And Red is gone.

The only proof of her presence is the trace of her familiar, pungent, confident scent. It's so faint though despite its boldness that it feels more like a memory, and yet, at the same time, it's strong enough that it manages to subside the smell of disinfectant sticking in the hallway. Or maybe... Maybe it was really your head playing tricks on you all along. A part of your subconscious pushing through and taking the form of the latest maternal figure you had, lending you the kind of courage that you sought, and compelling you to do the right thing.

Whatever it was, the boost of confidence that has derived from such... presence... imaginary or not, is what has you stride with purpose towards the doors leading into the delivery room.

Fear is hot on your heels, but you don't let it slow you down Just like you don't allow the nurse that stands between you and the door to keep you away from whom you love most, to stop you.

"I'm going in there." You state, shaking with purpose and trepidation and a shitton of other feelings you have no idea what you should do with them except capture as many as you can of those fluttering wildly about you and try to regain some resemblance of self-control before you'll step inside.

The nurse, however - a small, round woman, who (judging by the dark circles under her eyes) seems to be on the tenth hour of her shift and running solely on adrenaline (and probably caffeine given the alertness that makes her a bit twitchy) - isn't there to try and stop you.

"About time." She drawls in a harsh huff, thrusting a pair of clean scrubs against your chest, but despite the note of annoyance in her tone, you do catch the hint of a smile out of the corner of your eye when you put on the surgical green scrubs, the bouffant cap, and slip into a pair of shoe covers faster than your shaky hands shouldn't allow you to.

"Your wife has been calling for you non-stop." She informs as she sprays some hand sanitizer in your palms before pushing the doors open to let you into the delivery room, and as you rub your hands together, you do your best to push deep down the twinge of guilt that stabs you in the chest upon hearing that Piper has been indeed needing you and you weren't there for her.

But now, you are.

For a moment that awful feeling threatens to dig deeper and twist within your most tender and vital organs when, as soon as you get within her line of vision, Piper's blue eyes widen and she calls - actually s_houts_ \- your name.

"ALEX!"

Not so differently than she did earlier back at your home.

Her face is hot and glistening. A mixture of sweat and tears that has strands of her blonde hair stick to her forehead and cheeks.

You don't look at the doctors working, at the surgical instruments that they pass along and the bloody cotton balls and gauzes that they throw away, you don't let your gaze linger on any of that and give fear and cowardice the chance to catch up with you and corner you or make you flee from the room.

Instead, you rush at her side and grab tightly onto her hand when she reaches out for you.

"I'm here." You tell her, gently smoothing the sweat-damp hair from her forehead with your free hand.

She clings so tightly onto your other one. Tight enough to be almost painful. But it's welcoming. It grounds you.

This is real, you think.

Even though you hate that to reinforce the reality of all of this is the sound of Piper's frightened voice telling you

"I-I'm so, so scared Al. I-I..."

There it is again. That feeling rearing its head back and threatening to drag you down with it in that abyss of despair.

It sinks its fangs in you, latching hungrily where it hurts most. But you clench your jaw, stifle a hiss of pain and do your best to ignore it. Just like you ignore the doctors buzzing around, the wave of nausea that makes your stomach roll at the overwhelming smell of disinfectant, the sound of surgical instruments clinging on the tray. You swallow it all down and smile what you hope is a convincingly comforting smile at her.

"I know." You acknowledge with a nod, stroking her knuckles with your thumb. "But it's going to be okay." You tell her. "You can do this."

And somehow, even in your current conditions, you manage to convince her and convey all the positivity she needs with just those few, lame, simple, yet firm words.

Or maybe it's just being here, and holding her hand. Sharing this together. Like you are supposed to.

She nods shakily, releasing a quivering breath, but when she squeezes your hand, it's with all of her strength.

"Don't leave me." She begs you through a choked sob that resonates within your chest and threatens to shatter your palpitating heart into yet another million pieces.

To prevent that, you lean in to kiss her. Because among all the surfacing uncertainties, the proud, raw feeling that blossoms in there and cushions some of the damage that the dread in her voice causes to your tender insides - is the most unwavering certainty you anchor yourself onto.

The one that has given you strength for all the times you didn't have any of your own left to hold yourself up.

"Never." You solemnly swear when you lean back, kissing the back of her hand.

For better or worse, "I'm right here with you."

**. . .**

You have been so scared, spent far too much time thinking- c_onvinced_ (despite your best hopes that had quickly crumbled underneath the crippling weight of the panic that had seized you back at home when you found Piper in the bathroom, bleeding, in pain - and your generally pessimistic nature) that something was _surely_ going to turn out wrong - that you haven't had the chance to even consider, least of all _prepare_ for the best possible outcome.

The one where Piper is okay. Sedated by some mild pain reliever that certainly doesn't diminish the way she is buzzing with adrenaline though. She is tired. Worn out. But perfectly fine. Unharmed. Out of any danger (because some pre-labor bleeding can be scary as hell, but apparently it's not so uncommon). And where a nurse - the same one that has let your sorry, panicked ass inside the delivery room - is about to hand you over a squirming, crying, perfectly healthy, scrubbed-clean, little bundle of joyful eagerness (and what most likely is going to be trouble) wrapped in a deceiving, pure, snow-white towel.

"Little thing was just too impatient to meet you, apparently."

Now that your mind is slightly cleared and you are able to think once again, you have to admit that after everything that you and Piper have been through, you believe that you would have been _hugely disappointed_ if the whole deal wouldn't have come with at least_ some _drama.

"A little bit of a fuss, but no real harm done." The nurse seems to agree with your silent, inward statement, and you would probably see instead of just _hear_ the grin and relief in her voice if you weren't completely dazed, petrified in place by the sight of-

"Here she is."

As the nurse takes a step closer though, you find yourself involuntarily taking two backward, and you are only prevented from taking another one further because Piper's hand is still interlaced with yours, holding you in place.

"_Alex_..."

Her voice is so feeble, mirroring the same exhaustion that is visibly clinging to every fiber of her being as the stress of the emergency c-section and all the general tumult of this day catches up with her, and yet, it's the gentle urgency of her tone when she says your name what manages to capture your attention and divert your gaze _from_...

You swallow hard and glance at your wife.

You have long stopped questioning _how_ those two endless pools of blue have the power to ground you they way they do despite the fact that you seem to (so discordantly) end up plummeting into their gorgeous depths.

It's like landing and falling at the same time. It defies gravity itself and any other rule of physics.

However...

For how compelling that soft, silently pleading look is, and for how tightly it makes your heart clench with sentiment, this time, it's not persuasive enough for your current state.

You shake your head and close your eyes. And that's a mistake.

With nothing else but your fears and doubts welcoming you, it takes little for panic and that sickening, crippling feeling of powerlessness that you have experienced earlier, and general unworthiness, to resurface and make you realize that you are still broken. Damaged.

It would be profane to hold something so fragile and small, so innocent and pure in _your hands_.

The things you have used them for...

Take two lives.

Cut to pieces the body of a former friend after choking him to death.

Murdered your former boss in the most gruesome, gory way.

_No, no, no, no, no, no..._

A new wave of nausea hits you, acid rolls in your stomach, burning on its way up your throat, but before that feeling can overwhelm you and make you flee...

"Alex,"

Piper calls your name again. And this time, despite the weakness clinging to her voice, her tone is much firmer. Enough to compel you to open your eyes. And when you do, in the instant you blink them open and they adjust to the light in the room - contrasting so harshly with the black, stormy sky cracked by shafts of sunlight and framed by the window - you see the reason why you have done all the awful things you did.

For her.

And now also _for_-

"Please," Piper begs you, stroking the scar in your hand, leaving a feeble torpor in the wake of that caress, looking at you through her glistening blue eyes, soft and pleading, holding so much raw sentiment that makes you feel... _deserving_, for once, despite your many, badly patched-up flaws and past mistakes.

"She is _your_ daughter." She tells you, and the reminder paired with that look of infinite affection that hasn't dimmed one bit over a decade but only brightened to the point you almost have to squint to look at it now, is what makes your next, first real breath catch in your starved-off lungs and your heart do all sorts of acrobatics within your chest, as if it hasn't been enduring enough emotional roller coasters for the day.

Piper flashes you a smile, minutely nods her head, gives your hand another encouraging squeeze and then, at last though, you swallow the acid pooled in the back of your throat and, tentatively, let go of her hand and take a small step forward.

It takes reclaiming your hand to realize how tightly you have been grasping hers. Hard enough that your fingers ache with stiffness when you extend them and open your palm.

As the nurse approaches you, cautiously - like someone would to not spook a wild, scared, wide-eyed animal - the only thing you can think of, is that there has ever been a moment in your life where you have felt just as thrilled and absolutely terrified as you feel right in this moment.

The first time that_ she_ is handed to you, you hesitate. Because your heart is in your throat, your hands are shaky and sweaty, _slippery_, and among all the feelings of unworthiness that are just there, barely kept at bay but bubbling from underneath the surface, you are just so _so_ fucking afraid to hold her wrong or upset her or even drop her because of your frazzled nerves and equally wobbly state of mind.

But the nurse is instructing you correctly (even though, with your heart pounding as it is, you are barely capable of managing some basic coordination with your arms) and Piper - exhausted Piper who is still laying down and is just starting to recover from the c-sec and the general craziness of the past couple of hours - is smiling encouragingly at you, so brightly, with tears in her eyes, and so you take a long steady breath through your nose and reach out as the nurse passes her to you.

And just like that...

_O-oh._

There is a moment where the entire world seems to slow down to a halt for an infinitely long second.

No noise pierces the quietness that descends and wraps around you in that instant.

Of all the awful things that you were afraid of, you would have never, ever expected the kind of calm, serene quietude that shushes the whispers of demons that have been hunting - and hissing at you for so, so long that you feared they had become a part of you - when you feel her weight settling in your arms.

It's... startling.

How tremendously _right _it instantly feels.

As if such weight belongs there. In the cradle of your arms.

Your heart resumes beating, and the first sound that you register as the world starts spinning again (albeit slower, _so much slower_) is the wailing and the way it has quieted down, turning into a series of those soft, hushed, soft noises that only an infant can make in the moment the nurses lets go and you are the only one holding her.

Your daughter.

Something tightens in your throat and you struggle to swallow it down before you can choke on it.

You fail, and the first breath that you release after what feels like a short eternity, slips from your lips like a brief, stifled, breathless, sobbed, wet _laugh_.

And it's only then that you realize you are actually crying.

"_S-she is_..."

For once in your life, you are actually at a loss for words.

All the eloquence that you possess proves to be utterly useless against the feelings that bloom in your chest like a flowering vine.

There is no word that would describe the sense of completeness and pureness that you experience with all your senses at once.

Not even the "Perfect" that Piper mumbles under her breath, looking just as amazed and speechless as you are, is enough to convey the magnitude of that glorious feeling. The word itself sounds inappropriate, insufficient given how whole and flawless and utterly _pure_ (despite being a part of your broken self) the creature in your arms is.

You have never been one to believe in love at first sight...

With Piper it was more like physics. The kind of attraction that had to be taken both in the figurative _and_ literal sense. Because it really felt like surrendering to the overwhelming, unyielding pull of gravity.

You have found each other plummeting and spinning within the orbit of what was- _is_ your destiny.

Your gaze gets drawn back between your arms when you feel the baby stirring a little, you adjust your position ever so slightly and... you almost can't believe how content she looks nestled safely there in the cradle of your arms, making those soft tiny noises that only a newborn can make.

Your newborn.

_Your daughter._

The realization sinks deeper, as well as that emotion palpitating in sync with your heartbeat.

You don't even realize that you are smiling through your tears until your damp cheeks start hurting.

"Hey there... _kid_." Are the first words you say to her. Your official greeting into this messed up world that suddenly seems far less dark and scary and tainted.

Piper's sweetly raspy chuckle is the only thing that momentarily disrupts your attention from your thoughts and the smaller version of yourself held in your arms, glancing at your side to look at her and at the huge dimpled grin splitting her face despite the tiredness weighing on the rest of her features.

"I guess that title is hereditary, uh?" She quips, and god, your heart spasms and clenches so tightly on itself at the sight of her looking so tired but so immensely happy that it's almost painful.

If you knew this is how she would have felt, you wouldn't have been so hesitant to agree to the whole parenthood idea like you have been. A glimpse of that dazzling smile would have probably offered all the conviction you needed to be fully persuaded in a heartbeat.

And now, you'll have to deal with yet another someone who is going to challenge your resolution regarding your persuasion-resistance.

Because she may be biologically yours, but judging by all the unnecessary drama of the previous hours leading to her birth, you have the nagging feeling that you are most likely going to have to deal with another Piper.

She _made her_, after all. And the baby has already shown you the most ample, thorough sign of_ eagerness_ along with that _hint_ of drama.

"Y-yeah..." You answer eventually, sniffling through the kind of smile that, after all you have been through, after all the feelings of guilt you have been battling with relentlessly for far too long, you would have never thought your features would be shaped into one day. Or that you would have felt so... disarmed at a first glance. "I guess it is." You murmur, dazed. In Awe.

Because, broken as you are, remorseful and unworthy, you still helped to make something so... whole and innocent and purely _good_ despite all the ill, despicable things you have done.

For once, you don't allow yourself to take that detour.

You can't. You get raptured by that far more overwhelming, grounding feeling again that you have only ever experienced with Piper before.

It might sound cheesy as hell, but whenever you had been forced apart or chose to do so by your own volition, in all those occasions, you do have felt like the entire Universe had tipped off balance.

Leaving you spiraling off your axis, without the fulcrum and force to keep you properly in place. Just an unyielding resistance.

But now, for the first time in over a year, ever since that fateful night, something _tilts_.

And just like that, simply by adjusting by a couple of degrees, to you... the entire universe has never felt so... balanced.

So perfectly aligned.

* * *

**I know, it started off a bit dramatic and heavy, didn't it? Don't say I didn't warn you :P But now, if my fluff-meter is working correctly, then you should all have cavities. ****Welcome back to SentimentalVille guys :) Population: Vauseman + 1 ****❤️**


	7. Chapter 7

Hey everyone!

So, I kind of wanted to slip quietly out the back door after this story was finished, but, I'm telling you now instead. Thing is that I have decided to take some time off and focus on a few original projects I have tucked away (and maybe, who knows, _finally try _to catch up with season six of Orange. Yes, _six. _I know, I'm lightyears back with the show). I'm aware that this story hasn't caught the attention of many of you. I get it, I wasn't expecting it to since it's not smutty like the majority of my other Vauseman stories, and the whole Alex's POV might be a bit off (I'm the first to admit that I'm _much _more comfortable with Piper's). The subject I'm treating here is also not one into which a great part of me can see Vauseman fitting into, but trying to get them _"there"_ with this story is really something I've been wanting to try for a long time, some kind of challenge let's say, and I really wanted to give it a go. As usual, it's turning out much longer than I had anticipated, but, as you know, I prefer to take my time with these wonderful characters, especially in a plot this delicate.

Anyway, there should be only a couple of more chapters left now. After that though, I'm going to take some time for my other original projects.

So, to summarize, I wanted to take the chance to thank all those of you who are following this story and have been so patient and kind to leave their thoughts :) Thank you for sticking with me guys :)

Now here you go with the new chapter. Let's see how parenthood is treating Vauseman in the first six months...

Enjoy

* * *

Tiny wiggling toes and tiny, enthusiastically grabby hands.

She already possesses some incredible, precocious hand-eyes coordination for a two-month-old.

You know it because she is starting to show a certain fascination and fondness for your glasses lately. Reaching out and trying to grab them in her tiny (and surprisingly strong) fists seem to be her favorite pastime and the source of many giggles.

The hell if you know what's so amusing about it, but it certainly doesn't stop you from smiling like a total idiot whenever you hear that joyful squealing sound and see that toothless grin.

She is a curious little thing. Stubborn too when it comes to what, at the moment, is her entire routine made of sleeping and feeding hours, as if the blue-ish eyes and dimples and pout weren't already enough to resemble Piper's.

Which is... weird.

Maybe you did chose your donor right. Or maybe, somehow, splinters of Piper's dna have found a way to stealthily sneak into the genetic code of your baby, flitting right in between that space left by what is most likely going to partially define her demeanor.

Behavioral genetics aside, whatever the (unexplainable) case may be, you can hardly complain.

She is here. She is healthy. And she is _yours_, and no one else's.

You have never believed in love at first sight... But...

You are no stranger to have some of your firmest convictions turned against you and be proved wrong in a few extraordinary occasions.

Piper currently has the record and holds it like some kind of flaming Olympic torch, wearing part of your bruised ego as a wrinkled cape fluttering in the wind blow by the sigh of your defeat and her proud (and far too easily gained) victory.

You hardly have it in you anymore to feel itchy at such defeat though, or even consider it as such when here, in your arms, you are holding your new, tiny, living, breathing, cooing and squirming exception.

**. . .**

You have spent some time discussing possible names.

It was inevitable, and no longer an avoidable discussion after the seventh month.

And among the ones suit for a girl that you have come across in your... uh... research, there was one that you found particularly fitting given yours and Piper's controversial past made of love and betrayal and mistrusts.

It's a bit ironic actually (mythologically speaking anyway) the whole narrative behind the name itself and the reason why it captured your interest the way it did. But also, _mostly_, it's a reminder.

For you and Piper, to always trust and never doubt each other's word.

No matter how absurd and unbelievable circumstances may look like.

It's one of the vows you have both taken, given the pain that has derived from those... far too many occasions.

To always believe and pay attention to the other's needs, doubts and concerns.

And now, that includes your baby girl, too.

And judging by the way she has recently started smiling (and not just one of those simple reflex smiles) at the sound of her name, you think she likes it and approves of it, too. Or maybe it's the fact that you pick her up right afterwards and cuddle her in your arms.

Positive reinforcement and all of that.

Either way, it's the ultimate approval you need before officially registering it.

You sign the document, and so does Piper, exchanging a look and a smile that holds the promise to end the curse cast on a Greek prophetess and princess by one of the most powerful Gods venerated in the ancient world, by always believing your daughter, no matter what.

**. . .**

If you stop to think about it for a minute, you realize that it makes perfect sense.

So scratch the whole sperm donor part.

This is _definitely _Piper's child.

She wakes you up in the middle of the night crying because she is hungry. And _who else_ do you know has fit that description for the past six months?

The absurd eating hours habits that you have overindulged Piper with for that period of time, in fact, comes biting her back in the ass since it seems to have affected your baby and involuntarily established some kind of in-womb feeding routine. You'll have to look up if that's a thing, right now though, you are far too busy.

"You are staring again." It's hardly a reprimand and merely a (totally unnecessary) observation adorned with a little smile that is far too wide to be innocent, but at the same time far too soft to be teasing.

"I'm aware." You reply distractedly, far too captivated by the scene playing quietly in front of you to feel anything as absurd as nonsense embarrassment. You just... "Can't help it."

The soft suckling noises that echo just as quietly in the room, gently disrupting the silence of the night without depriving it of its peaceful dark, harmless beauty, are kind of... mesmerizing.

A hypnotic lull.

There is just _something _in watching Piper breastfeeding your daughter that is nothing short of fascinating. In a way you would have never believed the act itself could be. (And in a way that you would have maybe even pulled a face upon witnessing it up-close, if you have to be honest).

But what you find even more amazing than realizing how much you have changed (thanks, prison) is how she, despite being so _little_, just happens to know _exactly _what to do when a swollen breast and a rosy, stiff nipple gets exposed in her line of vision.

"How does she know that?" You ponder out loud, and okay, maybe this time you do feel some of that embarrassment creeping up hotly from your neck and scalding your cheeks upon hearing Piper chuckling, quietly, doing her possible to reduce the bouncing of her shoulders that comes with her laugh, all not to disturb the little one, who seems to be really enjoying her meal.

"It's instinctual." She even replies and you glare at her from where you are laying down on your side, propped up on one elbow on the bed, because "Thanks, Sherlock" you knew that, too. That scowling look, however, isn't just as effective as it may have been if your face wasn't currently painted by that treacherous warm pink flush.

You get your revenge though. Unexpectedly. And through your offspring no less.

Piper's laugh, in fact, gets promptly cut off and replaced by a sudden grimace and a low howl of pain that has her fold a bit onto herself when the baby-

"She..." Piper's eyes grow wide and incredulous, her mouth falling open in shock when she straightens up and glances down at the creature snuggled so comfortably against her chest.

The question sitting on your tongue and knitting your eyebrows doesn't get the chance to be uttered that she sputters a hushed, yet utterly outraged and just as disbelieving "She just _bit _me!"

You blink, startled, gaze shifting from her baffled expression to the baby, aka innocence personified, big blue eyes wide and staring up at her mom with what can only be confusion and disappointment for having her meal interrupted for apparently _no reason_.

Your incredulity and humor burst free from your chest in the form of a booming laugh.

"She isn't even teething yet!" You debate in between cackles of laughter, that only increase when Piper gets defensive.

"I'm _sensitive_, Al!" She reminds you, hissing through gritted teeth, and oh... you are _very _aware of _that_.

"Ugh."She groans when you simply flash her a totally unapologetic smirk. "I'm starting to see some genetic markers appearing."

"Yep," You confirm, grinning proudly. "Now we officially know that she is mine, and that has gotten the _kinkiness _from me." You even quirk and wiggle suggestively your eyebrow. Piper, however, simply limits her response to an (affectionate) eye roll. Stubbornly deciding to swiftly lick away the smile that was curling on her lips instead, just to deprive you of the satisfaction.

She sits back, re-adjusting into position by leaning against the recliner chair, lifting her feet and resting them onto the stool. She may still look a bit upset - maybe even slightly offended - but when your daughter latches on again in no time, her grumpy expression melts away, getting replaced by the purest look of adoration as she too, gets raptured in the beauty of such primal act.

It's incredible, you think. How witnessing such a quiet scene manages to solidify in place the broken pieces of your soul. A simple layer of tenderness slathered over those sharp-edged cracks that almost makes you forget about how brittle you still are.

You aren't going to question it though.

You just accept (for once choosing to lean onto the comfort of gratefulness rather than the uneasy lump of disbelief and unworthiness) how right this feels.

It's the sight of Piper shifting on the spot and tugging her bottom lip between her teeth what pulls you back from your reverie.

"You okay there?" You ask, the amusement that had been laced in your voice but a minute ago shifting into concern at the sight of her... discomf-

_Waitaminute._

You take in the blush - visible even in the partial darkness - that creeps up her neck and colors her cheeks, hear the tiny whimper that she suppresses in the back of her throat, and notice the way she wiggles on the spot.

"Holy crap," Your eyes widen right back into shock. "Are you _actually_-"

Her head snaps up and she glances up at you with a glowing, furious red blush. "I told you I'm _sensitive_, Al!" She sputters, confirming your hypothesis and looking utterly mortified.

You remember reading something about _it_.

About how the act of breastfeeding can turn out being a somewhat... _arousing _experience, for the mother. Not much for the whole physical stimulation, but rather for the release of hormones that can cause a very similar response in the body to when... Well.

It really proves how strong of an experience she is having.

It might have you feeling kind of jealous at a very deeply buried unconscious level.

Still, the knowledge that your daughter is already (unintentionally of course) showing to possess some serious, _innate _mad game and getting her mom all worked up like _this_, is as inappropriate as it is pricelessly amusing.

For the second time in just as many minutes, you surrender to that itching urge that has you snort at first and then burst into a loud, unrestrained guffaw.

Piper glowers at you.

But you barely notice it. Far too busy in choking on your own tongue and wheezing for air in between waves of laughter that have you breathlessly roll off the bed.

**. . .**

Getting Piper all flustered and embarrassed is not one of pastime that has grown old for you over the years.

It might actually have gotten far more interesting and delightful for you eliciting that reaction from her or simply just witnessing it in many more, different, unexpected occasions revolving around all the new developments in your life...

**. . .**

You can tell, from the way Polly's face lits up and her dark eyes melt into something infinitely soft in the moment she first sees the baby, that she just got bit by the smitten bug.

Her son is a cute, sweet, shy boy, but... that look on her face when she sees your daughter... it has you believe that she might have been wishing for a little girl, too.

With that thought no doubt swirling in both your minds upon witnessing their first interaction, you and Piper share a knowing look when she picks her up, so carefully and expertly. Because it's so obvious that she is going to be the aunt who is going to spoil her.

Or maybe kidnap her.

Probably both.

"She is beautiful, Alex." She tells you, grinning, and... it strikes you it that moment that this might be the first time that she smiles at you a full sincere smile that isn't dashed with awkwardness or looking insincere because laced with an old resentment. (Bitch kind of played her part in getting your ass slammed back in prison after all). But considering how things turned out you though in the end, you don't know whether to be grateful for it or elbow her in the face.

"Uh..." Both the smile and the comment are so unexpected to leave you a bit that you actually don't know how to respond to such an oddly flattering... compliment?

Caught in the doubt, you decide to go for a safe, polite and simple "Thanks... _I guess?_"

You don't think that she heard the inflection that your answer has taken though, too caught up with the bundle of squealing giggles squirming happily in her arms under tickling fingers.

"So I don't get any credit, uh?" Piper's voice joins in, arms folded over her chest and a look of offense creasing her features into a (pretended) scowl. "Who do you think has done the hard job and assembled all of the genetic material of this hotness here?" She asks Polly while flashing you what she probably considers a seductive smirk but can barely pass as crooked smile at best, that has you bite on the inside of your cheek to keep from showing her how you do it _properly_, to elicit that knee-buckling reaction that you never fail to obtain from her.

"Uh..." For the first time, Polly diverts her gaze from the baby to look at your wife and her best friend with a totally unimpressed raised eyebrow. "Your _uterus_?"

Once again, the tingle of humor in your lungs gets the best of you.

It's so sudden, and the expression of utter shock that takes over your wife's features, the way she opens and closes her mouth helplessly, robbed of her eloquence, is too much than you can handle without preparation.

This time, the offense taking over her face is authentic. She gasps outrageously. Sucking all the air in the room as she does so, leaving you with no choice but surrender to that laugh that has been swelling in your chest and itching in your lungs.

Polly is right behind you with it.

And then the baby joins in, totally clueless, but that's what babies do this young.

They imitate.

But it's still an addition that renders the whole scene simply priceless.

Three against one very flustered, offended, prickly blonde who is giving you the kind of look (dashed with that lovely shade of pink flaring closer into the hotter raging red of anger) that guarantees you a night on the couch.

Honestly, at the moment, you don't care.

In case she would go through with it and couldn't shake off the embarrassment caused by this innocently teasing moment, it would still be so totally worth it.

Still, just not to risk it... You play the cards that will allow you to get back on her good side again. Delivering sweet promises with a string of kisses and a few (filthy) words whispered breathily, teasingly in her ear.

The way she shudders and releases that delightful little noise that she can't quite contain, no matter the attempts to strangle it in the back of her throat, has you smile in victory.

She is _so_ easy.

But, with her, so are you.

And you no longer try to pretend otherwise.

There is no longer the pretense of some bullshit reputation to uphold. You never had. And that's what the titanium band wrapped around your finger reminds you, among many things and many other promises you have made to each other.

**. . .**

The journal that you have been occasionally writing on whenever your nightmares occurred has rested untouched in the new place you found for it in your nightstand's drawer for... so long you can't even remember actually.

And so has the rubbery finger-bands thingy you used for your hand rehabilitation exercises.

And you know that it's not coincidental that you no longer feel as if your skin has been reversed from the inside out, exposing the nerves and blood vessels to the outside, leaving you so painfully vulnerable and sensitive to the most feeble gust of wind lifted by your doubts and fears.

You still get some moments, but that's all they are.

It's far easier during the day to avoid those thoughts when your attention is mainly on one precious little someone. On taking care of her and ensure her overall well being.

In the dark of night though, when everything is quiet and sleep is a bitch that refuses to ferry your awareness into Morpheus' real, and when there is not much to occupy your mind with, it's far easier for those half-buried thoughts to bubble back up from under the surface. You may have gotten far better in keeping them at bay, but even if the actual nightmares haven't occurred in a while, it happens that you get an uneasy sleep every once in a while.

And, apparently, you are not the only one to whom that happens.

Usually, it starts with a soft whimper.

A little stirring followed by some generally unhappy little noises that you have come to interpret as those preceding a crying fit.

So you do the only thing you can to prevent that and potentially run into the unnecessary risk of waking Piper up (she wouldn't mind, really. On the contrary, she would be far too willing to see what's wrong and soothe whatever it is that has been troubling and stirred awake your baby girl in the first place, but having all three of you give up on sleep is really not necessary). You get off the bed and pick her up from the crib before she can start wailing, exiting the bedroom and closing the door behind you as quietly as you can.

"What's the matter?" You ask her in a hushed voice making your way towards the nursery, as if she could provide you with an answer.

She still does, in a way, not a verbal one of course. But as soon as you have made sure she isn't hungry or needs changing or there is anything visibly, physically wrong with her, there is one more possibility left.

"Bad dreams, uh?"

It's impossible that she might be already properly recognizing words or understanding what you're saying. And yet, you could swear that the little, sleepy cooing noise that she makes around the pacifier at your rhetorical question, sounds like an affirmation of some kind.

You look down at her and swallow, trying to push back down the pulse of your heart that has fluttered up in your throat at the sight of those big blue-ish/green teary eyes staring up at you. There is... such familiarity in them.

"Yeah," You nod knowingly, taking a seat on the reclining chair near the window facing the portion of the patio outside. "I get those too sometimes."

She is still staring at you, sucking quietly on the pacifier, tiny fists loosely balled up, and maybe Piper was right when she made a certain comment some days ago. Maybe she wasn't simply teasing/low-key flirting with you when she said that the baby likes the sound of your voice.

You really try not to read too much into it despite the fact that you have, (not for the first time though) managed to quiet her down and avoided a crying fit without doing anything else than picking her up and attempt some not-so-awkward after all "conversation".

You are the first one to give in in that staring contest, looking around, searching for something to occupy your time with since it surely looks like neither of you seems to be showing particular enthusiasm or willingness about going back to sleep any time soon.

After a quick survey of the surroundings, your gaze lands on the low bookcase resting just under the window, already filled with gifted children's books and... well. It seems like you have found your entertainment for the next undefined amount of time.

"I don't do good with one-sided conversations," You confess her, scanning the books without actually reading the titles and picking up one at random. "So I'm going to read something. That good with you, duckling?"

God, your life has gotten so... surreal.

So much in fact that you are now here, on a Thursday night, sitting in a nursing chair and... reading to a baby you never thought you desired. _Your baby._

If someone would have told you a couple of years ago that this would have been where you ended up, you would have made the most horrified face. Before probably laughing your own ass off.

You tear yourself away from the tangled-up strings of the past and interpret the way your daughter curiously looks and reaches out for the book as her assent.

Uh, easy enough.

"All right then..."

You flick the lamp on and settle back more comfortably against the back of the chair, tucking your little cub protectively against your chest and setting the book in your lap.

It turns out being The Little Prince. Which is definitely far more than a four-month-old (or even an eight-year-old) will ever be able to understand, but...

Maybe you'll instill her the importance of looking beneath the surface of things. Of where to find real beauty and meaning in them.

You linger on the thought, and the more you consider it, the more you like the idea that this is going to be the first book you'll read to her. Or maybe you just feel too awkward at the idea of picking and reading one of those more suitable for babies that have been gifted you.

A tiny hand demanding your attention is all the persuasion you need anyway.

So you start. And, at first, it feels a lot like reading in front of an audience.

Those curious big eyes (that may have started showing a few specks of green floating within that sea of blue) remain locked on you for three long chapters before they start fluttering shut. And then _you_ are the one who can't help staring in awe.

There is simply no way to keep your gaze from getting magnetically drawn to the tiny creature cuddled seemingly so peacefully in your arms, functioning as a whole new axis of your entire being, preventing you from tipping over that precarious side that has done nothing if not making you feel miserable for far too long.

Only another person in the world has ever caught your attention with such captivation before.

Your throat is a bit dry from reading, your back a bit stiff for staying in the same position for too long, and, for the same reason, there is a torpor prickling at the lower half of your leg and gnawing at your half-asleep calf. But the threat of a cramp is not enough motivation for you to get up yet and get the blood flowing properly again.

Eventually, Piper wakes up as you knew she would have once she rolled over and found long-gone-cold sheets and an empty space instead of your solid warm frame to cuddle in her sleep.

By the time she finds you, you are all pins and needles, and she has this amused, sleepy smirk on her face.

"I didn't want risk waking her up," You justify in a hushed tone as she walks closer and carefully relieves you of the sleeping cub held in your arms.

"Uh uh," She answers, nodding her head unconvincingly and grinning, not believing you for one moment. You honestly wonder why you even feel the need to lie about not being able to keep your gaze away from the comfortingly steady rise and fall of her chest, from the little twitches that her nose does when she is dreaming.

Old habits. Must be.

"I'm sure that's the only reason." Piper stage whispers.

Ugh.

Maybe telling the truth would have spared you of this whole scene.

She is getting so much entertainment lately in purposefully getting you all flustered by poking at this new soft side you have started developing. Serves you probably right considering that you have been doing the same with her. Or maybe this emerging part of you has simply been hiding for all this time underneath one of those thick barriers that you have been keeping lowered around the chambers of your heart as a defense mechanism that you don't need anymore. Especially not when you are around your daughter.

Well, if Piper finds your "excuse" amusing, two can play this game. And you are much better at it than her. Got over a decade of experience under your belt.

"You're right" You answer, nodding your head and pretending to heave a sigh of defeat. "I didn't want to say it, but... I came and stayed holed up in here because the bedroom walls were shaking with all your snoring. Thought we would be safer here from what could have been the epicenter of a potential earthquake."

It works.

That furious indignant blush taking over her face, making her glow in the partial darkness like a nightlight (or a flare, given the sizzling sparks coming off her) is all the confirmation you need.

"I _do not_ snore." She hisses, the nature of her blush though, and the way such warmth seems to concentrate on her cheeks instead than radiating down her neck and make her bulging veins pulse, makes her look far more embarrassed than outraged. That's why you decide to keep for yourself (for the moment at least) the other _two _things she does in her sleep and is totally, blissfully unaware of. That being humping your ass when you reverse-cuddle. And... farting.

To you, right now, seeing her wearing that look that is stuck somewhere in between embarrassment and scandal... she has never looked more cute.

Although... as your gaze shifts on the precious cargo sleeping peacefully in her arms, totally oblivious to this whole conversation, you think that now Piper might have gotten some serious competition in the cuteness department.

**. . .**

Apparently, the "older" she gets, the less she likes staying in the crib.

It's a bit frustrating, but probably not as much as it clearly is for her. And it's not like you can blame her anyway.

You too have been surrounded by bars long enough to know how it feels like longing for freedom. Even just for that hour of air.

Hell, when no one believed to your warnings (_again_) and you had been left with no other choice, you got _forced_ to evade and... it really seems like that might be yet another trait that you have passed along to your little one. Who appears to be far too curious for her own good. Which is yet another trait that makes her resemble more and more to Piper instead. Or maybe it is all attributable to the adventurer in you? _Uh_...

Whatever that might be, if such trait had been paired with Piper's impatience (something you have established on the very same day she was born by literally _kicking_ her way out of Piper and pulling all of that unnecessary drama) then it shouldn't really surprise you that, as soon as she is able to stand up on her own, the first thing she tries to do is climb her way out of the crib in a very goofy-spiderman-like way.

She is clumsy at first, testing her own strength and coordination. It's pretty harmless though. Perhaps even a good motor exercise actually.

So you let her, and (paying extreme attentiveness to every single move) watch her cute (even though unsuccessful) attempt for a break-out.

Your amusement, however, gets soon replaced by something pretty damn near close to actual wonder when her coordination gets much better relatively fast, gaining and refining her stealth ability in the process, too.

A real escape artist.

"She is _so_ your daughter," Piper comments one day when you both catch Houdini right in the middle of pulling her number by trying to swing one tiny leg over the edge. Piper might even sound still a bit upset and (rightfully so) worried about the unnecessary risk and what could have happened if you had arrived one minute later, but relief floods both your systems like a drug and, as it sinks in, you can't not notice the look of unaltered affection softening her features and melting away the tension from her frame when she makes such comment.

"That she is." You boast, grinning proudly when the baby makes grabby motions in Piper's direction, babbling something incomprehensible in a language that you haven't been able to translate yet but that is probably a much more sophisticated, longer, infant-version that stands for _"up"_.

"Look at her, already trying to escape only so she can be held by you." You say, handing her over to Piper who expertly balances her on her side with one arm, rolling her eyes at your cocky smirk and reference. But it only takes a moment for that exasperatedly fond look to melt right back into that same adoring smile that blossoms into a full, dimpled grin when the baby squeals a delighted laugh and squirms in her arms in the moment Piper tickles her bare (literally baby-soft) belly.

**. . .**

Since naps in the crib have become a no-go, and any attempt to get her to stay is met with the most dramatic scene involving crying fits until her little face gets all red, you find an alternative. She is big enough anyway for it to be safe now, especially since her naps no longer last as long as they used to when she was more little.

For the first time in your life, you actually feel flattered in having a girl fall asleep on you in ten seconds flat.

She looks so calm and cozy that you could never even pretend to be a little bit annoyed about the tantrum she threw earlier.

It's... tremendously peaceful. In a way you would have never imagined. Also, as Piper doesn't miss the chance to geekily remind you, "Skin-to-skin contact is extremely important when they are this young."

For a moment you almost expect her to go into full explanation (again) about why it is so important exactly. Perhaps she is afraid that she'll wake her up if she gets into it. Still, you really can't help but tease her since _she_ was the one who has shown some concern regarding the very few (practically non-existent) risks of an hour-long nap in this position.

"So you aren't going to stop me or tell me that I might be encouraging her bad behavior or something?" You ask her, gasping with mock shock.

Piper barely notices it though, she just shakes her head distractedly. Her gaze never leaving you and the little sloth cuddled and sleeping soundly against your chest.

"No," She denies stretching out a leg and fishing out her phone from the pocket. "Although I'm going to take a couple of pictures. You know, for a future reference about how much you look- you _spoiled her_."

Your lips quirk into a smile.

Nice save.

"Hey," You defend when her comment fully reaches you. "I'm not the only one pampering her." But, once again, Piper doesn't even seem to hear that hint of returned accusation, or pays attention to the pointed, accusatory look you give her through narrowed eyes, already far too busy framing you in the best light, taking advantage of the sun rays filtering through the window behind you to play some artistic chiaroscuro effect against the black halo of your hair, and snapping a series of pictures with that same adoring smile gracing her lips.

**. . .**

It still feels odd, when your thoughts linger on this new reality that you and Piper have created out of all the shit you have been through and navigated with the sailboat built entirely with about eighty percent of your affection and the remaining twenty made of Piper's stubbornness.

Sometimes you can barely believe it. Other times instead (far more frequently) you don't want to imagine how things would be if you hadn't decided to turn direction and challenge the force of the stream by accessing the life-changing, bumpy torrent of parenthood paved by rocks.

It has truly changed your entire way of thinking, of living, in so many ways you don't even try to keep up with the differences anymore or make comparisons.

You actually don't want to.

You have just accepted it and fit within that new space that had been appositely carved for you with such naturalness that you barely felt the transition into this... deeply committed person that you have become. And the more you think about it, the more grateful you are for saying yes and giving this (and yourself) another chance.

For once, for the first time in a very long while, being in the sole presence of your own thoughts, doesn't scare you anymore.

So maybe you do have done some progress after all.

And there is no doubt what- or rather whom (beside Piper and her constant, loving sustain and patience) may have played a very big part in speeding the process along in this past year.

"You were right."

Piper might still have some... difficulties in uttering out loud her mistakes and admitting fault.

You, on the other hand, not so much.

This time in particular in fact you actually feel the need to admit that you had been wrong.

"Oh?" It still manages to catch Doctor Campbell by surprise though.

In the past several months your... relationship with her has evolved. Your initial mistrust and negative attitude have found a crude rival in her patience, kindness, understanding and overall genuine interest in your fucked-up situation.

She has started to feel more like a real adviser to you than a simple counselor paid by the feds to get through all the mess that they could (and should) have avoided.

"How so?"

She sincerely looks like she has no clue but is indeed curious to hear what you meant with such a cryptic admission.

"When I first brought up the... conversation," You start, and even though you don't specify which one of the hundreds you had over the past year, her eyes widen with immediate understanding, and her pursed, wrinkled lips stretch into a smile. It's kind of creepy, the fact that she has learned how to read you, your tone and posture - from the curve of your shoulders to the fidget of your nervous fingers - so easily that she has already caught the subject of such "conversation".

"I see..." She hums, pleased, encouragingly. And you don't need much more than take one steadying breath before continuing.

"Maybe it has to do with taking care of someone who needs me," Piper does too, but... in a different way. In an independent, adult way who needs her wife. "But I feel more..." _Tethered._ "Present." It's the word you settle for at last.

"No longer so plagued by all the awful things that I have done." And it's true. Even though you still are afraid of having it all taken away from you. Of losing it all like you almost lost Piper that night.

But now you are far more determined to not lose her and your baby girl to yourself.

So you tell your therapist about the journal thing.

About having started to open up with Piper a bit more and no longer shutting her off from your grief.

You tell her about how awkward it has been for you doing so at first. In a "this feels wrong" way that has made the words stick in your mouth, foul and nauseating, before you could spit them out. Not wanting to taint Piper with their corruption but unable to keep them poisoning you from the inside.

You tell her about how it has felt like throwing up lead the first time, and how easier it got getting rid of that heaviness when you were only met with Piper's understanding, that cold, dead weight inside you replaced by the smooth-edged warmth of her scorching affection.

You tell her about how you no longer feel as if you are made of the wrong shape, trying to fit all the ugliness and horrors within you, slowly turning you into an abomination so it won't affect those who you love most. Now you know better.

You tell her almost everything, and it feels... tremendously good. Blissfully relieving.

It comes instinctually to wonder if you could have done it earlier and spared yourself some of that agonizing pain, but then you realize that things have moved forward like this because you have taken your time to understand what, precisely, has been making you feel so miserable.

"And what was that?" Doctor Campbell asks you, leaning closer, dark eyes fixed on you with what can only be the same anticipation that is making her hold her breath.

Your lips twitch in a smile, because she already knows the answer, but she wants to hear it from you. Out loud.

And you deliver.

"Unworthiness poisoning by guilt. It's awfully similar to seafood poisoning actually, only to the Nth degree."

You could swear that the sound that your very composed and professional therapist tries to stifle at the last moment, is an actual snort.

She clears her throat and uncovers her mouth from the hand that she has put there to hide her amusement, revealing a full smile.

"It's so good to know that you haven't lost your sarcastic wit in the process, Alex."

"I think Piper would have divorced me already if I did," You admit, pensively. "It kind of plays an essential part in our verbal foreplay."

This time, she actually chuckles, and doesn't try to cover it up. Then she leans back into her seat and looks at you in silence for a few moments before closing up her hardcover notebook.

There is a sense of... closure... in the gesture, and in the way she sets the pen on the side on the coffee table that isn't lost on you. As if she has just finished writing a novel. Taking a moment to breathe in the fulfillment of a hard, yet rewarding job.

It makes you feel oddly uneasy. The boost of confidence that has possessed you but a moment ago when you so boldly uttered your "diagnosis", slips away like the snowflakes that you see getting stuck to the window and melting against the heat radiating through them from the cozily warm confines of the office.

"It seems like my job here is mostly done." It's what she says after a solid minute spent solely in watching you and your confused reaction at the stretched silence.

A thorn of anxiety springs from the garden of quietude that had blossomed in your chest upon uttering out loud your greatest plague.

You shift uncomfortably in your seat. Brow knit. Hands growing moist with sweat.

"W-what does that mean?"

Her answer comes with a smile.

**. . .**

It turns out that you weren't having a meltdown, and your mind wasn't actually giving the first sign of a mental breakdown.

She was really there. That day. At the hospital.

In fact, she has been keeping tabs on you for some time by third parties.

You pinned it on your PTSD and lingering paranoia.

Didn't dwell on it only because you had forced yourself not to give in to the thirst of those demons who far too often had used the bait of doubt to drag you down into their lair. But you couldn't ignore it. The nagging feeling that someone was actually _watching _you, like that day when you went shopping with Piper and ended up at a baby clothing store.

It was _her _all along.

This time though she doesn't startle you by coming up behind you like she did last time.

Instead, she approaches you at the bench where you are sitting in the park, taking in the quietly falling snow with a take away tea cup nestled between your gloved hands and providing heat, basking in the sight of the park getting covered by a white mantle, and taking five minutes to just... revel in the lightness of your insides, now free of that lead-like weight you have been carrying around for too long.

The first thought that you have when she takes a seat beside you, is still a paranoid one that might have something to do with what just happened in your therapist's office. As if this might be some kind of elaborate final test designed to challenge the stability of your sanity.

You shake off that feeling by taking a sip of your honeyed ginger tea, which, on its own, manages in soothing the doubt that was starting to stir in your stomach.

The wind blows in the moment of silence that follows, and then, once the snowflakes lifted by it settle on again on the ground, you are greeted with the exact opposite words she has greeted you with at the hospital five months ago.

"You look good."

You didn't speak up first on purpose, just to be sure this wasn't some kind of hallucination.

And while you bravely sneak a tentative glance at her. She doesn't look at you. Preferring to keep her gaze straight forward, as if you were in one of those don't-make-eye-contact spy movies that were popular in the nineties.

She probably had all the time to apprease you from a distance before she decided to approach you anyway.

You, however, break that "pretend we are stranger" bullshit and turn to properly look at her.

She looks older, it's the first detail you notice in her appearance. Tired. But her posture is proud and composed. Plainly showing that she still carries herself with the same confidence that made her stand out among crowds of khaki and orange. As if prison and all the fucked up things that happened there didn't break her from the inside but merely shook her exterior.

Maybe she is healing, too.

She is the one who lost most, after all.

"How is motherhood treating you?" She asks before you can get the chance to put far too many thoughts into a greeting of your own.

You breathe in, deeply through your nose, letting the icy cold air settle in your lungs like frost while the thought of your baby girl safe at home, most likely waking up from her afternoon nap, wraps the rest of your insides in a soft cushion of warmth and curls your lips into a smile.

It feels nice.

And you... You feel good.

It may have also something to do with what your therapist told you earlier at the end of your session. About the decision that she has reached and shared with you given your progress.

Getting your weekly appointments reduced to just one and sending the feds a thorough report of your current situation and mental/emotional health isn't like being left off the hook, yet. But the possibilities of being soon assigned to a job is on the table now. It doesn't immediately bring you much closer to be more financially supportive of your... family. But... it's definitely something.

That trail of thoughts comes full circle, compelling you to look at her as you remember all the things you have been through, the mess you got all tangled up in, what she has endured _for you_, the risks she has run to _protect you_ and ensure you got the future that you are now living as your present.

Your eyes soften, your lips curling into a smile while your throat tightens with a knot of emotion.

There is no answer good enough to convey how parenthood has affected you. How taking care of someone so small and innocent and beautiful is patching up the kind of damage that you have inflicted on yourself.

There is nothing you can tell her to say how grateful you are to her. But mostly you can't provide an answer when under that question hides a far more obvious one that she isn't going to ask you directly.

So you do it for her.

"Would you like to meet her?" You ask her, and you instantly know, from the look that she gives you, from the way her facade crumbles and her blue eyes widen and sparkle, glinting with a layer of moisture, from the way she diverts her gaze and swallows hard looking at nothing in particular at the horizon, getting a bit choked up and doing her best to not give it away (and failing miserably for once) that, as you had guessed, there isn't another invite she had been hoping to receive.

**. . .**

In the moment you step foot into your brownstone apartment, Piper almost has the same reaction you had at the hospital when you saw her: The whole wide-eyed, gaping mouth look of incredulity and foggy disorientation.

To break the moment, or rather intrude with a graceful little squealing laugh, is your daughter, held in your wife's arms, and looking quite intrigued by the spiky red hair of your guest that, no doubt, reminds her of the dragon plush you bought her before she was even born and that sits on the dresser, overlooking her crib, and guarding the priceless treasure that it holds.

It might be the one and only time you see Red getting soft and not giving a damn about it for more than just five seconds.

Your daughter - as both you and Piper are well accustomed by now - displays the same blatant eagerness to be picked up as always. And even this time, her toothless grin and those big blue eyes play the same immediate charming trick.

**. . .**

The surprises, as it seems, never end.

Maybe it's the holiday season.

The Christmas spirit or whatever the hell it is that possesses people during this period, pushing them to score good deeds in replacement of the bad ones they have done during the rest of the year. The current ones for the interested person being constant absence and lack of support, if your naughty list is correct.

Although you could really use a break at the moment, you decide, or some help at least, because your daughter is crying and has been for the past half an hour and you can't figure out what is it that is troubling her and making her so cranky, which is stirring back up that same old feeling of usefulness and unpreparedness you have become too accustomed to.

When you first hear the knock on the door, you hope it is Cal, or even Polly, because they both have had to deal with their own babies and you are running short on possibilities here. It's far more possible it might be the upstairs neighbor complaining about the crying though.

But no, during this one snowy afternoon, you open your front door to no others than your so-called father-in-law.

And you swear, it's the first time e_ver_ that you see him in broad daylight (well, kind of anyway, given that the snowfall has layered the sky with stripes of gray shielding the sun).

It's almost like seeing a vampire.

A _creature_ you only know shows at night, and mostly never with good intentions when it does.

Even _Carol _(the one who you suspected being the real, controlling bloodsucker of the pair with the sharpest canines and the most venomous bite) visited Piper in the hospital the day after your daughter was born.

No fake plastic smiles to cover the disappointments and pain of a life spent with a man that doesn't truly love her, but the kind of authentic happiness that displayed a whole new side of the woman that you never thought she was capable of showing so plainly and effortlessly.

The glimmer in her eyes made her look younger despite the way they wrinkled at the corners.

And the resemblance that you found when that smile has stretched enough to dig a pair of dimples in her cheeks, has actually made your heart skip a beat.

It had been startling.

As much as it had been disappointing knowing that Bill wasn't going to visit.

She covered up for him. Some elaborate bullshit that had far too many frills to be an authentic excuse. And while you didn't give a fuck about the man being or not being there, you did in the moment you saw the look of hopefulness drop into discontentment and then right into sadness weighing on Piper's still exhausted features.

And now, here he stands. In your doorway. Looking like a stray dog that got disoriented in a snowstorm.

You are enough on edge and annoyed with worry and your own current usefulness to be actually tempted to get your sarcasm and bitterness a go and ask him if he got lost on his way to his Mistress', because who knows, the world is a small snowglobe, and the brownstones in this neighborhood are all identical flakes.

Eventually though, it's the look on his face that stops you from making that nasty comment. It is watching the way his eyes - those eyes that just turned into the same icy shade of blue that Piper's do when she is bristling with uncertainty - settle wide and unblinking on the crying baby girl you are holding in your arm, shielding her from the gust of wind and snowflakes that come in through the crack of the door.

"Piper's not here." It's a far more polite greeting than the one that has been rolling on your tongue, yet, he winces at the abrasiveness of your tone and his shoulders sag minutely at the information before his entire expression crumbles with disappointment.

"Oh..." He looks down at the unfriendly "Come back with a warrant" doormat that only Piper could have found on the flea market that this side of town has every first Sunday of the month (which she thought was a humorous way to divulge your status as convicted felons to the whole neighborhood, you guess), and you almost give him the same invitation by slamming the door in his face.

_But_...

Ugh... he looks _so_ pathetic.

And that kicked puppy face is probably what has you take pity on him.

"She's going to be home soon though, so..." You let your voice trail off and crack the door slightly ajar for what universally stands as an open invitation. Not open enough though, since he still looks unsure of what to do with his own feet.

"You are invited to enter and wait for her." You spell it out, deliberately, rolling your eyes in annoyance.

Jesus_ Christ._

What's with the Chapmans and direct invitations?

It just makes the whole vampire reference (and growing doubt) come kicking back in with full force.

At least that gets him to step in this time, closing the door and standing by it like a bulky, unwatered and withering apartment plant.

Gosh, you really have no time or a sufficient amount of patience to babysit him right now along _with_-

The loud, incessant wailing of your baby girl ringing in your left ear and the swell of worry booming in your chest along with it, makes you forget about the gnawing resentment for the man who has migrated and is now standing just as uselessly in your living room.

It sure seems like Piper has inherited her father's guilty look. But he doesn't remain there sulking, as soon as the baby starts crying again, he gets daring enough to approach you. The swirl of concern and tentativeness on his face instantly replaced by a flash of hurt when you instinctively turn on your shoulder, shielding your baby girl, fixing him through narrowed eyes behind your fogged up glasses.

He backtracks, looking down at his expensive suede boots (which, by the way, seriously? Suede with snow? Nice idiotic combo) as he swallows and asks, "Is she okay?"

You scoff.

"Of course, she is just testing her lungs to hear if she has any chance of becoming the next Renee Fleming." Oh,_ hello sarcasm my old friend._ How _comforting_ it is wrapping around that good old blanket against the chill of awkwardness that has suddenly invaded the room with his presence like a gust of wind.

You dismiss him in order to take another look at your crying, distressed-looking daughter.

"What is it, baby?" You ask her in a pained voice. Keeping your concern from evolving into panic is taking a lot of effort. But it's a border you are quickly approaching nonetheless.

Tentatively, you reach out and touch her forehead. Cool.

Then her reddened cheek. Much warmer.

You frown. It's probably because of the crying, you reason, but...

"I think you might have a bit of a fever..." You mumble mostly to yourself as you make your way towards the kitchen and the medicinal cabinet in search for the thermometer.

"I don't think it's fever," Bill's voice reaches you before can sort through the cabinet's content. He shrinks a little when you turn to look at him through narrowed, confused eyes. "I... uh," He awkwardly rubs the back of his neck. "I think she might be teething, actually."

You do a double take. "What?" You blink at his slouched figure in disbelief. "No, no she is too young, she can't already be-"

Your voice trails off as Bill, with the most tentative smile, points back to your daughter, who you notice, has suddenly stopped wailing. You look at your side over your shoulder and find her gnawing at the first two fingers of the fist that she has stuck in her mouth.

"Oh..."

A weird mix of inadequacy and relief starts flowing through your veins. In all honesty though, relief is taking the lead, subduing your concern and soothing your mind, which has been spinning in between some possible reaction she could be having from her last week's DTaP vaccine injection, to... whatever awful thing you wouldn't have been able to treat on your own.

You reach up to gently tug her fist away from her mouth and dry the saliva off her hand and chin with a wet wipe. Sometimes Piper falls asleep on your chest, and in the morning you are used to find a pool of drool of various shapes and sizes soaking through the cotton of your sleeping shirt. So this is nothing new, really.

You look at her and you almost want to ask her "why didn't you tell me?", but she has, in her way, been telling you. And you actually feel embarrassed that you didn't notice the signs that are now far too obvious. Like the redness of the skin around her irritated mouth.

Poor thing.

"I think I have one of those teething rings in the nursery." It was among the gifts that Piper's received at the (extremely late) baby shower. Now, if you only can remember _where_ you put the damn thing...

You are already turning and heading towards the hall when Bill's voice pierces through your thoughts and stops you in your tracks.

"That's good," He says, "But... uh, probably not the best for her right now," He points out, wincing slightly at the sight of your daughter's reddened mouth and cheeks. "She is far too irritated for that..."

You turn to look at him, one eyebrow raised expectantly. "Then what else?"

He hesitates.

"When Piper was going through this phase, she... There was only one thing that would help in soothing the itch of her gums..."

The mention of Piper as a baby gets you momentarily lost, wondering what kind of hell-raiser she was when she was in diapers.

Something tells you she started _awfully_ early in causing trouble.

It's the feeling of Bill's gaze on you that has you get rid of the smile that twitches at the corner of your mouth at the image that your mind had just painted in vivid colors for you at that thought.

"Are you going to share or hold the secret for the sake of mystery?" You ask a bit exasperated.

His eyes skid self-consciously towards your kitchen before returning back to you with that same annoying hesitation dashed with the questioning tilt of a white eyebrow.

"Do you keep fruit in your fridge?"

**. . .**

Who would have known that a chilled slice of apple was going to be what it was necessary to save your left eardrum from getting ruptured, soothe your daughter's crankiness, bring relief to her itchy gums, and yeah, above all of that, also turn out to be the bait playing a big part in getting you and your (ugh)... father-in-law, to sit down and... _talk_.

"I believe I owe you an apology, Alex."

You resist the urge to wince. Your name in his mouth sounds just so... foreign and-

_Wait._

Did he actually just said "apology" _or_...?

"I'm sorry, I haven't been fair to you."

Holy shit.

He really just _did_.

He...

He must be dying or something.

Came here to get this weight off his conscience or whatever before drawing in his last breath and collapse lifeless on your hardwood floor.

Even so, when those blue eyes lift and lock with yours, allowing you to see the tears that he is struggling to blink away, your gaze hardens, and your jaw twitches with suppressed anger.

"Piper is the one to whom you should be apologizing, not me."

You know better than get disappointed by "the men" in your life.

Your father turned out to be an asshole the moment you met him, and those that came after him... Well, they all got killed. Two of them by your own hands, funnily enough.

You _really_ don't want to add a third "justifiable homicide" to your record. Luckily all the sharp knives are in the kitchen.

Bill nods, ducking his head as if it would be enough to hide the shame on his tired, old features.

"I know. And I have every intention to. But I also need to apologize to you for not having properly acknowledged and supported your... union, with my daughter."

Once again you have to resist the urge to roll your eyes at his awkward phrasing. Because, seriously?

_Union?_

The fuck?

You and Piper are a lot of things, but a closeted couple from last century is not the reputation that has people turn to look at you (with a vastness of glances that go from awe and respect to suspicion) around the neighborhood.

"We got _married_, Bill." You tell him, deliberately using his name as if you were explaining things to an ignorant child. Hell, you might be. He doesn't seem very educated on the... subject.

"You know, wife and wife?" You shouldn't have to explain this to him if he had fucking shown up at your little, private, totally unromantic City Hall "ceremony".

At the very least he has the decency to squirm at the reprimand in your tone, but it's his own guilt what makes him shrink.

"I bet you wouldn't have had many problems acknowledging the _union_ with whatshisname if Piper married him instead." You huff, hoping that it covers up your frustration and rising anger, glancing down at your daughter to help you cool down and making sure that she hasn't bitten off a chunk of apple from the slice she is enthusiastically gnawing at like a tasty treat.

"Actually..." Once again, Bill's voice redirects your attention. You look up at him only to find some kind of a grimace twisting his mouth. "I've never been fond of the boy either."

Uh, it's both surprising and at the same time it isn't. Maybe you do have _something_ in common then...

Still, "We are going to need something more than a mutual dislike for him to properly bond, _Billy_. And you better not give me the whole 'nobody is ever going to be good enough for my daughter' speech." You add because it's time he pulls his head out of his ass, takes off the bullshit filter he has chosen to see through, and opens his eyes to _see_ that Piper is _not_ the delicate flower that needs to live in a terrarium glass vase, or a pure, immaculate angel. In one metaphor, beside the lovely petals, she has thorns (very... _attractive_ thorns and spines that sting with the same intensity of her temper), in the other it is the horns peeking from her skull that keep the halo above her head in place. In either case, she can defend herself and even play the dumbass selfless hero.

(...why couldn't she surprise you with something _other_ than getting a potentially fatal wound though?)

It's a start, and even though Bill's eyes narrow in dislike at the nickname and generally bold informality that you carelessly throw his way, the corner of his mouth twitches into a smile.

"You are right." He allows, nodding. "I've been trying to protect her for too long... Even though there was never a way of telling her what to do."

And just like that, his gaze darts away. His smile growing just as distant and somehow melancholic. His entire expression softening as he glances at your baby girl, still happily gnawing at her slice of apple.

"Even when she'll be all grown up, you are going to keep seeing her just like this." He says. "When she needed you the most. And when you wouldn't have allowed anyone who might have even looked at her wrong to get anywhere near her."

It's an unfair, dirty tactic.

Using your baby daughter to make a comparison with Piper, who is a fully grown woman. But you set your jaw and tilt your chin up, and there is nothing if not all of your conviction and honesty when you answer him. "I'll do whatever I can to guide her and prepare her for adulthood. But when she'll be all grown up, and make her own decision, I'm going to trust her judgment." Because that is going to be mostly based on a combination of experiences and what you and Piper are going (and have already started) to teach her. Which is... sort of circular logic. Redundant.

It's a convincing and sincere argument nonetheless, and yet, Bill's looking at you with this... annoyingly indulgent smile.

"If only it were that easy to ignore that pull of parental protectiveness." He sighs, proving _exactly_ his point when he reaches out to tickle a socked little foot and you instinctively move as if to take your daughter out of his reach.

Even under the smile that curls on his lips for having been proved right (damn it, you fell into that one trap far too easily) you can see the shade of hurt in his eyes brought up by the gesture.

You divert your gaze downwards.

Itch gone, now your daughter is simply looking at this... male figure sitting in front of her, seeming intrigued by the white hair standing up like short porcupine spikes on his face.

Bill doesn't ask you, but you know how to read those expressive (extremely familiar) blue eyes that first widen and then crinkle at the corners with a smile when, after a moment of hesitation that melts into a sigh falling silently from your lips, you lift your little teething cub from your lap and carefully hand her over to him.

He holds her with expertise and natural ease, grinning when she reaches out to curiously touch the little ticklish spikes on his face, looking utterly fascinated, not so differently than she did when she first saw and touched Cal's fluffier beard.

Bill's voice actually cracks with emotions when he answers to that greeting brush.

"H-hey kiddo..."

**. . .**

Among the things that Piper expected to see when she would have finally returned home an hour or so later, you are positive that it probably wasn't the sight of you and her dad sitting on the couch, with your daughter perched on his lap and cooing giggles at his games and silly voices.

The grin on Bill's face as he plays with her... For the first time, you see from where Piper has gotten her smile from.

She might have her mother's dimples, but those crinkles and that sparkle in her eyes, it's from her dad.

Although it's definitely something else when you see such smile mirrored on your wife's lovely features, taking over the initial disbelief, rendered even more beautiful and unique by the tears that well up and shimmer into those bottomless pools of blue at the sight she is greeted with as soon as she steps inside the living room and takes in the scene playing before her with bated breath, as if drawing in a single sip of air would disrupt this long dreamed scenario that, out of fear, she hasn't allowed herself to brush even with a thought.

You turn it into reality by reaching her side and kissing her chastely out of her stupor.

The tip of her nose is cold as it brushes against the side of yours. But her lips are warm and infinitely soft.

"Welcome home, _hon_." You breathe against them, now feeling fully home yourself, too. And despite the light note of playfulness that you deliberately weave in that domestic greeting, the smile that you flash her when you pull back and reach up to brush away melting snowflakes from her coat and beanie, holds nothing but all of your affection.

* * *

**Since I have realized that the chapters are far too long and heavy to go through at once, I decided to split them up. Also yes, in case you were wondering, I'm purposefully keeping you wondering with the whole "not revealing the baby's name yet". You are free to make guesses though based on the few info that I have left and teased you with at the beginning of this chapter :P**


	8. Chapter 8

Hey there!

Awww, you guys are so sweet :D But please, don't get all teary-eyed on me just because I mentioned that I'm taking a little break :D As I said, I'm just doing it to focus a bit more on my other original projects and to try and catch up with the previous seasons of the show.

By the way, I don't know if the new season is already out or is about to be released, but at the risk of sounding dreadfully redundant, I would like to take the chance and remind you all to keep a _"spoiler-free"_ zone here. That means no personal comments/opinions/hints or _anything _regarding the show whatsoever, please. Also, _no prompts requests,_ since I'm _not _accepting any at the moment.

Anyway, I'm very glad you have enjoyed the previous chapter of this story so much :) Your kindness and flattering words have most definitely soothed some lingering doubts I had about the POV and the general subject being perceived as too OOC. So thank you all guys! :D

Now I leave you with this new chapter.

Oh, the whole prison deal here at the beginning is just... something I came up with. Speculation for closure purposes, that's all. While the rest of the chapter is fragmented in the course of the following seven years.

Anyway, here you go...

Enjoy

* * *

From experience, you have learned that whenever you get contacted by your lawyer, it's _never _something that goes _anywhere _near being remotely good.

Every rule, however, has its exception.

And this is your new- well... _newest _lawyer, after all.

Still, you are wise enough not to lower your guard at the "excellent news" that she greets you and Piper with, along with a hugely satisfied smile as soon as you step foot in her office.

You are inclined to though.

You like her a whole lot _better_ than your previous counselor.

Maybe it's because she is a woman. (Who actually looks like she knows what she is doing).

Or maybe it's because she has this whole lesbian vibe and generally sarcastic wit that, along with her not-overly-pretentious appearance, makes you feel more at ease.

She looks like an older (and shorter) Jane Lynch in a suit.

"The corporation that was in charge of Litchfield is getting dismantled to the ground, and they have accepted to sit down and make a deal for all the mess they have caused back in your prison-days."

Following your therapist advice, you have diligently been avoiding anything regarding prison.

Didn't want it to compromise your recovery by needlessly risking to slip back into the most traumatic experience (and overall nightmarish period) of your life.

Still, you make a face upon hearing that news.

_Acknowledging mistakes?_

"That... doesn't sound like them _at all_." Piper points out, stealing the words right out from your mouth and delivering them through the same suspicious narrowed gaze that has creased your own features.

"Yeah, well, given all the liability issues they are currently facing it was either_ that_ or go into a huge lawsuit that would have left each one of them down to their undergarments." Patricia- your _awesomely_ stereotypical Jewish lesbian lawyer - informs you, shrugging nonchalantly while scooping up a handful of peanuts from the bowl on her desk and popping them in her mouth.

"Actually, jailed _and_ in their undies." She corrects in between crunchy chews, lifting her feet and carelessly propping them on the corner of her perfectly polished, Victorian mahogany desk.

"What you two suffered under their so-called 'management' and 'direction' has opened a very _thorough_ investigation- the colonoscopy kind - by the Professional Standards Commission."

"Professional Standards?" Piper's frown deeps as she shifts in her seat beside you. "What's that?"

"Eh... I guess you can think of them as a branch of Internal Affairs that investigate whenever there is suspicion of lawbreaking and professional misconduct. Reports of abuses from guards to inmates and all of that." She summarizes with a dismissive wave of her hand. "They had been involved ever since the riot. Things sped up a bit with your escape though," She continues, glancing directly at you. "Ever since the feds got involved and, well... since your warnings had been ignored, they risked the life of a civilian in danger..." Her voice trails off as her gaze shifts with a sympathetic smile to Piper. "All the most relevant figures in charge have been left with no choice but pay for the potentially deadly mistake or go to prison themselves."

You snort, but your teeth are grinding together with anger. "So they are covering it up?"

"Oh no, not at all. One way or another they are finished, _for good_." Patricia informs you, nodding with firm certainty and a sadistic smile. "This way they only get to maintain their freedom spent in a hopefully eternal shame." She smirks.

"And which '_way_' is this, exactly?" Piper asks before you can present such question yourself, sounding and looking just as confused as you are.

As if she wasn't waiting for anything else but hearing that very same question, the satisfied smirk on your lawyer's face widens into a full grin.

She puts her feet back down on the floor and dusts off the traces of peanut grease and salt from her hands, sitting back composedly into her chair, smoothing out invisible wrinkles from her expensive blazer, and reaching into the thick folder of your case laying on her desk without diverting her gaze from the two of you.

What she pulls out from it and places in front of you, has your heart screech to a halt and your stomach churn with a mix of anger and nausea.

"A_ check?!_" You sputter, wide-eyed, incredulous and utterly _outraged_.

"An _extremely_ sizable check." She pinpoints, but you barely hear her with the way your ears have started ringing at the sudden rush of blood to your head. You don't even glance at the number of zeros. Your vision is blurring and you are _fuming_.

"Is this their way of recognizing their mistakes?!"

Piper, who is far too composed (which you don't know whether to be grateful for or be suspicious about) reaches out to lay a hand on your arm. Definitely grateful, you decide. Because even though you might initially tense up a little, the warmth of her touch and the soothing, circular motion of her thumb on the outside of your wrist, play that same old melting trick on you that has you exhale and lean back onto your seat.

"Look..." Patricia takes the occasion of your subdued flare of anger to resume, far more calmly and composed, showing all of the three hundred thousand dollars Georgetown law tuition that has made her a great, respected, and successful lawyer. Thank _God_ she offered to handle your case pro bono. Apparently, the newspaper's notoriety brought by your prison break-out has touched a lot of influential people. And you are pretty sure that under that perfectly tailored suit and generally soft-butch facade, beats the heart of an undying romantic. And you believe that it's actually the..._ "romanticism"_ in your escape what might have persuaded her to seek you out and offer you her extremely (in)valuable, legal representation. Although, it could have also been a simple gesture of solidarity, given how active and committed she is within the community.

"I know this is not what you wanted." She acknowledges, and you _barely_ refrain from re-snorting upon hearing that.

"But do you _really_ want to go through the trial as material witnesses and being forced to re-live the nightmare you have been through, _for years _to come? Because it's not going to be a speedy deal getting these fuckers locked up." She informs you. "With all the other witnesses and testimonies we could probably win, sure, but they are finished already. So let's cut it short, save all that energy for something that actually deserves it, and just... take the check." She suggests. "Cash it. Use that money for something constructive after all the destruction and pain that already went down because of them. Something good can still come out from all those awful mistakes."

She smiles in conclusion and... you sigh.

The fight got drained out of you right the moment she mentioned the possibility of you and Piper being called as witnesses in what (no doubt) would turn out to be an endlessly long trial.

With the anger receding, you are left sitting there feeling pretty much like a deflated balloon.

An object not fulfilling its purpose.

It's dreadfully frustrating.

"I wish I could have just... _strapped _a medieval mace on and fucked one of those pricks in the ass." You grumble, simmering with annoyance.

Patricia's amber eyes grow wide. "That's dark." She comments. "_And_ kinky." She adds, and just like that, her smirk returns, taking over her face with a mischievous vengeance.

"Perhaps I can arrange a spanking instead?" She oh so_ generously_ offers as an alternative.

"They would probably enjoy it too much." Piper chimes in, successfully lightening the mood and getting rid of the rest of the tension that was oppressing the air and weighing in your lungs with that flirty remark.

You breathe out a half-snort, half-chuckle through your nose when she throws you a seductive wink and an actually fairly successful smirk. It eases the knots of worry and rage that got your insides all tangled at the news.

"I bet they would." Patricia agrees with that sly smile.

"_However_, as your lawyer, I advise you to keep that vengeful punishment as a fantasy." She suggests, and the way she sighs says everything about how disappointed she feels too in not instigating, for once, what would be a totally justifiable criminal conduct.

"For now, I'm afraid that this will have to do." She adds, reaching out and sliding the check further towards the two of you. "Take it as a win, Vause. You have each other." She points out, with a soft smile. "That's all that matters anyway."

It is.

And since you are not really looking forward to get into a whole new argument about how money doesn't change what happened, and how _insulting _such offer is, (and actually feeling pretty exhausted just thinking about it, recognizing the threatening pulse of a potential headache throbbing at your temples) you just let Piper conclude the discussion with a simple and polite, "We will think about it."

Assertiveness has never fit very well in your set of skills anyway.

With that, she takes the check, neatly folds it in half, and slips it in her purse, tugging you up with her when she stands.

"And thank you." She says, squeezing your hand to prompt you to return your gratefulness to the woman who has helped you kick some ass on the way out of hell.

"Yeah, thanks, Patricia." And despite the fact that your twitchy, feeble smile easily gives away how upset you still are with this outcome, your gratefulness is sincere. "Really." You insist. "For... all you have done for us."

As expected though, not being one fond of sentimentalism (not openly at least, or with clients, you suspect) Patricia dismisses your thanks with a nonchalant wave of her hand as she stands as well, gallantly showing you to the door. "Pleasure's all mine ladies, believe me." She assures, and for once, that charming, confident grin melts (even if just very briefly) into a sincerely warm smile.

It doesn't last for long though. Soon enough in fact it gets replaced by its previous occupant when, right before you can head down the long, buzzing-with-lawyers hallway for the elevator, she calls out for you.

"Oh, and if you want to re-do the whole wedding thing in a more romantic way, I'm here with all the paperwork to make that happen." With that reminder and offer punctuated by a wink, you leave the Daniels & Farinelli law firm feeling just a bit despondent, but otherwise... surprisingly relieved.

At least you didn't get summoned for having gotten into some trouble without knowing it.

_Still..._

**. . .**

"We are not going to cash that check."

Despite the quietness of your voice, it's a firm statement. Not a decision that is up to discussion. Not for you at least.

You would really just like to... leave that part of your life behind you for good. Locked in an isolation cell to rot.

This is your present, you remind yourself, smiling at the sight of your daughter, currently crawling-navigating between a vast array of all the books and toys sprawled on the carpet, contemplating which kind of activity she wants to spend the afternoon doing.

"Al," Piper calls you from where she is sitting, barefoot, across from you.

She is using that tone.

The one laced with that deceiving softness that still succeeds in gaining your attention.

"I know you are conflicted by the... _morality _of all of this."

You scoff bitterly.

Because that's a huge understatement.

But she doesn't relent.

And you should have known better.

"I don't like it either." She admits, and you don't have to look at her to know how unhappy she is about this situation, too.

"I hear a _'but'_ coming up." You sigh, lazily bracing yourself for it.

"_But_..." True to prediction, she doesn't disappoint you. "We don't get to think just about _ourselves_ anymore."

As if on cue, your attention gets demanded by some of that perfectly coherent baby-babbling as your little girl returns to you with a book. A two-teeth grin and a pair of eyes that - caught in chromatic indecision - seem to have settled for a bright blue rim that turns into a softer, warmer green/hazel towards the center, stare up at you expectantly.

You can't help but smile proudly at her choice.

You scoop her up in your arms and settled against the couch for support.

"I really wish you wouldn't get her involved in this." You tell Piper as you open the book to the beautiful John Tenniel's original illustration of Alice shielding herself from a shower of cards.

The smile that you see on Piper's lips when you dare a glance up at her is somewhat sad. Understanding. "We have to." She simply replies, rather matter of factly. "There is no other way for us to make _any_ kind of decision without including her now, Alex." She points out, and she is perfectly right. So infuriatingly rational.

You are like the three musketeers now._ One for all, and all for one._ And... you are going to do whatever it takes to keep it that way.

"I'm a real, full-time teacher now, and you are going to be assigned to a job soon. But we have to think outside the box, too. Have a plan B ready, for emergencies, even if we are hopefully never going to need it."

You have never been one to go through life with a safety net. Everything in your life - ever since when you were a kid - has been quite unstable and precarious.

Right now though, that kind of safety is all you can think about whenever you think about the well being of Piper and your baby girl.

"We could use that money to buy this place," She suggests, gesturing around your living room, but you dismiss the idea immediately with a firm shake of your head.

"No."

There is no way in _hell _you are using those filthy, corrupt money in such a way. There is just _something_ about buying the home that you have made for yourself here, out of love and devotion, with money gotten from your past in prison, that simply doesn't sit well in your mind. Or stomach.

You like her next suggestion a lot more anyway. "Or we could invest them in _her_ future." She offers, scooting closer when your daughter, tired of waiting for you to start reading, babbles and makes grabby motions for her.

"With this amount of money... She could go to any college in the country if she wanted."

Typical of Piper thinking ahead in the future about getting your daughter into college when she isn't even in pre-school yet. You still can't help the smile that tugs at your lips though. Because you both share the desire to give her an instruction and make sure she has it better than you didn't. Your baby girl sure hasn't been shy in giving you the signs of being a smart, curious, eager little thing. All the main, top-quality ingredients that make for a success recipe.

You think about it for a minute, and you really don't need a second more than that to reach the most reasonable and appropriate conclusion to this... issue.

"We are going to open a bank account in her name, but we are not touching a single penny of that money until we absolutely have to, or... until this little one decides that she really wants to roam around Europe after graduation and go to Oxford or whatever."

The wide, dimpled smile that Piper gives you, says that that's exactly the same thought that she has been pondering over. She scoots closer and pecks you on the lips._ "Thank you."_ It says. _"I love you."_ It says. Then, before you can recover from the softness of that kiss, she turns her attentions to your daughter and starts playing with her, doing silly voices while going to a merciless ticklish-kissy attack that earns her a lot of delighted squealing giggles that makes your heart leap in your chest; A reminder that all you need, is right _here_.

**. . .**

"You okay, baby?" Piper asks you later that same night when you are slipping into bed.

You are. Spending one rare afternoon in the company of the two people who matter most in the world to you has done wonders to subdue the resentment that had boiled inside you back at your lawyer's office for bringing back up your past in prison.

"Yeah," You answer as she slides under the covers and turns on her side. "It's just..." You pause, gnawing on the inside of your cheek before turning to face her. "I still wish there was a way to expose everything we've had to endure as inmates, you know? Let the world know how it was like." You sigh. Thanks to your escape (and that goddamn video took during the riot) the world is already aware of part of it anyway. Still... "It's not fair that _they_ get to pack their things and walk out with just a wounded pride throwing some money around."

Piper is silent for an awfully long amount of time. And it's said prolonged silence that has you blink out of your thoughts and back into focus, finding her worrying her bottom lip pensively.

"Actually..." She starts, tentatively. With the kind of uncertainty that you sometimes forget is a hidden part of her most vulnerable self. "I might have been working on..._ something _like that for some time now..."

You frown. "What do you mean?"

When Piper explains, she is a lot less tentative, but still somewhat caution.

"I... I started it in prison, actually. Then, after... all that _happened_ with... you know... I sort of put it in the back burner, choosing to prioritize... _other_, far more important things," She says, reaching out with a hand and brushing a strand of hair out from your face, smiling tenderly at you. And even though you might still be frowning in puzzlement at her, you find yourself leaning into the comforting warmth of her gentle touch, which, paired with that smile, is the only other thing that keeps you from getting concerned when you ask her "What is it?"

She seems to ponder over whether telling you or not.

In the end, she shakes her head, and decides against it, scooting closer.

"I'll tell you, just... when I'll have all the facts checked out and ready, okay?" With that rather cryptic response, she yawns, then snuggles against your front, fitting right in between your arms and tucking her head under your chin.

You leave it like that. Because it's late, you are both tired, and you wouldn't want to risk such tiredness getting in the way and start something that could easily evolve into an argument given the fragility of the already delicate subject.

And even though her secrecy might have teased a bit your curiosity, she didn't look concerned.

You trust her.

So you just let the soft humming noise of her steady breathing lull you into sleep.

**. . .**

She doesn't leave you guessing for much longer.

But you _are_ kind of surprised to find out that you are not the only one who has been doing some secret writing during the previous several months. Although you doubt that the journal containing the entire collection of your most terrifying nightmares can be put in comparison to the initial draft of_ her memoir_.

**. . .**

You aren't going to deny it.

She looks pretty cute in pink.

Sugared-almond kind of cute.

But if she is anything like you, she might hate it being dressed up like that _every. day_.

So today you are the one choosing her outfit. A far more punk-rock outfit perfectly suit for that rebellious, _"sorry, can't do"_ attitude of her that you have gotten the chance to glimpse at whenever she tries to break out from her crib. Which is super appropriate given your visit at your in-laws'.

And it's then that it happens, when you are slipping tiny socks into just-as-tiny feet, that the string of babbles and occasional cooing noise, take form into a word of two, very distinctive-sounding syllables that differentiate from the rest in their simple clarity.

_"Mama"_

You freeze in your task.

Head snapping up, eyes wide fixed on your baby girl, who is looking at you with amusement.

"Holy shit..."

She giggles at your astonished expression.

"Holy shiiit..._ Piper!_"

Your wife comes rushing into the nursery before you can even get the chance to fully wrap your mind around what just happened.

"What it is? What's going on?!" And it is only when you see her, short-winded, distress and worry etched on her features as she steps closer and inspects your unharmed baby girl, that you realize that maybe, for once,_ you_ are the one who (caught up by surprise) has gone a _bit_ overdramatic. Although, given the current circumstances...

"S-she..." You blink, licking your dry lips and willing your voice to collaborate without cracking. "She _spoke_!"

It's all you are able to sputter at last. "S-she called me _Mama_." And, perhaps, you would feel a tad embarrassed for stuttering. Honestly, though, your heart is pounding so hard, with a whole new rhythm spelling excitement, that you can hardly care about sounding (or smiling) like a total idiot.

"What?" Piper sounds just as astounded as you are though, so that's kind of relieving.

"She... She_ did_?!" The excitement in her voice shifts straight into pride as she grins at your baby girl.

"Say it again, duckling." You encourage her once your jittery nerves and the rush of adrenaline through your system has diminished enough to allow you to speak somehow more coherently.

As if on cue, your baby girl's babbling stops and she looks at you. Her little mouth opens and closes, searching for letters and trying to remember how to properly shape that single consonant and vowel and repeat it in two syllables.

You and Piper wait, patiently, with bated breath, _until_-

_"ol'li c'hiit"_

There is a beat.

And then, the most deafening silence.

As stunned as both you and Piper are left. Frozen on the spot.

You don't even breathe.

Your face drains from all the color, your eyes widen like saucers. Your lips part but... no sound makes it past.

That's not the case with Piper though. Who gasps outrageously after the initial shock and then turns to you, throwing daggers of accusation through narrowed eyes. "She better _not_ have just said what I think I she said!"

That settles it.

Your expression breaks in between a newly discovered level of amusement and the most painful grimace as you swallow. "I believe she did."

"_Seriously,_ Alex?!" She reprimands, sputtering, baffled, as she scoops up your little girl and covers her ears. "I... _ugh!_ I swear I can't _even_-"

She groans and walks briskly out of the room.

"Hey! That's not _fair!_" You defend, mildly offended. "She could have _totally_ heard it from you, too, you know!" But contrary to Piper's previous ones, there is no bite to your words. You can hardly be mad or feel guilty about it.

And whatever trace of defensiveness was initially in your tone, gets soon replaced by the pride that takes over your voice and claims your face with a wide grin.

Could you be _any _more pleased?

Kid's barely talking and she is already sticking by your side with your secret plan of getting Piper all so adorably, furiously flustered with her first words.

You sigh dreamily.

_It's just like when you first met..._

You pick up your courage and follow the chorus of undignified grumbling and joyful giggles down the hall where you find your wife and daughter standing by the door, ready to go to what is most likely going to be a _very _tense family brunch.

However, Piper is wearing a scowl that is far too thick to not be hiding a secretly amused smile underneath (far, _far _underneath though) while your little one greets you back with a huge, still mostly toothless grin that you return in full.

It really seems like you have found your new partner in crime and co-conspirator.

**. . .**

Ever since that night you both woke up and weren't particularly enthusiastic about going back to sleep, you have made it your personal mission to introduce your baby girl to the right genre of literature and authors, interpreting the way she squirmed in your lap and yawned as a protest and general sign of displeasure that has eventually (proudly) directed you towards Dickens and Carroll and Twain; the classic and most original works, although far more modern and cleansed versions that are more adapted for kids.

You are not as good with the whole "making-voices" deal as Piper is in getting each character its own personality and distinctive drawl, but... you try your best, sending on its merry way the twinge of mild self-consciousness that swells inside you at first in hearing yourself talk in a silly way to amuse a child. Well, not just any child though. _Yours_. Which is what makes all the difference, you reason. Also, the fact that she giggles whenever you try, is all the encouragement and reward that you need to keep doing it.

It's definitely one of those behaviors that fall into the pile of "things I could never picture myself doing". And yet here you are, doing it _daily_.

And today is...

"Robbinson Crusoe, _really Al_?" Piper asks when she finds you sitting on the carpet with your one-year-old. You don't know whether she looks stern or actually amused.

It's hard to tell.

Because her jaw is set with a reprimand, but there is that soft _glint _in her eyes and that subtle _twitch _at the corner of her mouth that points towards a whole other direction.

"What?" You simply defend shifting your daughter's weight on your other leg. "It's for children. Look." You hold up the book defensively. Daring her to find something wrong with the colorfulness of the images. "See? It even has pictures and everything. Do you have any idea how ridiculous I feel reading a book with pictures?"

Not even half as much as you pretend. But she doesn't need to know _that._

She still guesses as much anyway. Quite easily.

The way she sucks her lips into her mouth, in fact, suggests you that the gesture itself is done in an attempt to suppress the smile threatening to break through.

She is_ definitely_ far more amused than she pretends to look upset, you think, upon noticing that spark of entertainment glimmering brighter in her eyes.

"Just..." She sighs, veiling her amusement under a note of concern. "Try not to give her any ideas about piracy, _please_?"

You merely roll your eyes at that one, getting back to the book when a _"moma" _and a few more incoherent words and what sounds like a _"read, again"_ accompanied by a tiny impatient hand grabbing yours, beg for attention and for you to resume reading.

Piper may have something to say about some of the reading material, but she definitely doesn't protest when your daughter is able to read a few words by the time she turns three.

Although you may both get slightly concerned when she gives signs of Hyperlexia.

The only reason why you don't slip into panic about possible undiagnosed autism or Asperger as soon as you realize it, is that she hasn't shown any of the typical symptoms.

She smiles and laughs. She responds when you call her name. And she eagerly meets your gaze whenever you are nearby and playing with her.

She is just... smart.

Like...

_Really_ smart.

And you and Piper are going to make sure that such a gifted mind (and the bright curiosity and inventive that come attached to it) will get all the stimulus it needs to grow to its full potential.

The only thing you aren't going to do though, is burden her with pressure. She doesn't need to excel when she is already everything you didn't know you wanted.

You hardly even need to motivate her though when her eagerness is far ahead of you.

It bursts to its brightest on her first day of preschool. And, as you should probably have expected, the one who ends up crying, turns out to be_ Piper_.

You both probably did a great job in tricking your little girl into believing that school is going to be fun.

The joke is on you though, when you soon find out that she likes and is eager to learn.

**. . .**

Piper really called it that time.

But since the only "legitimate" work experience you've had has been the job that had been assigned to you when you were in prison, it was perhaps a bit obvious that such profession was going to be within the realm of possibilities.

So, when the time comes, you get recommended by the feds and assigned to a maintenance/gardening company that gives second chances to convicted felons.

As you already knew and experienced, landscaping is a hard, sweaty, back-breaking work.

Much harder than you remember it though.

But the pay is more than acceptable.

Better than you hoped actually.

And despite what you were first afraid and doubtful of, getting your hands in the dirt, smelling it, using pruning and hedge shears, hearing the sound they make as you use them on overgrown ivy and to snap branches of small plants, hasn't made you relapse.

So perhaps you have moved past the flashback phase of your PTSD.

You just hope it's going to remain that way. Because... You actually like the job. Staying in the open.

It even allows you some reasonable hours.

Sure, you need to be up and gone at the ass-crack of dawn, you don't even get to see your little girl before she has to wake up for the day, but you can be there to pick her up after school and spend the rest of the afternoon with her and the evening with both her and Piper, like the family that you are.

And that's what you look forward to every day while you are busy either mowing the grass, trimming plants, tearing down the overgrown back yard of a couple too old to do it for themselves (hoping that there aren't snakes or scorpions hiding between the bushes and the half-collapsed woodshed), or removing weeds and adorning the lawn of some huge mansion in the suburbs just outside the city with the most rare kind of roses and the prettiest begonias, all while listening to some lonely housewife making (lame) puns about _trimming bushes_ and giving you some lewd glances and suggestive smirks that has you almost choke to death on the glass of lemonade they just offered you - deliberately letting the kimono slip from a shoulder to reveal a scandalous Victoria Secret negligee that leaves_ far too little_ to the imagination, and flashing you a flirtatious wink that erases completely any doubt about the nature of such lady intentions.

The fault goes to the heat and sun, which always shed you down to your tank top, leaving your shoulders and tattoos exposed, making your bad-girl, ex-con vibe stronger than ever.

And since the gardening gloves kind of hide from their view the only, _physical_ proof that _someone else _(an exceptionally dorky blonde) has already made an honest woman out of you... It has granted you far too many awkward conversations already.

You are not even flattered by their blatant looks of appreciation anymore. Just... annoyed, and perhaps a bit saddened by the plastic-wrapped facade that is their lives. Full of riches and comforts.

What use is a big, fully accessorized (albeit empty) house when your spouse is_ always_ "working" and "spending weekends out of town in meetings" - Aka banging his secretary.

_Ugh. _

So much for suburban cliches.

You are _so_ fucking glad that you and Piper didn't end up having this kind of people as possible neighbors. Not that you could have afforded to live on Wisteria Lane (or would have had the patience to go through any more drama and strangers going up through your shit).

You already got enough of that. To last for two lifetimes.

"I don't think I have seen anyone turn down so many _'our guest restroom is out of order, I'm afraid that you'll have to use the one upstairs, next to my bedroom'_ invitations. It's impressive."

Speaking of cliches... Your boss (who can imitate the perfectly standardized, lonely housewife in a _masterful _way) also happens to be the _perfectly stereotyped_, tattoed, jacked, flannel-wearing, short hair-cut, open-mouth-gum-chewer, cat-owner, and pick-up driver kind of gay.

Practically a seven on the Kinsey scale.

It's really like... putting a hat on a hat.

She would honestly give Kate McKinnon a run for her money, both in gayness _and_ in humor since she is nothing short of exhilarating, which makes the hard-ass job a lot more bearable, and the breaks so damn refreshing.

Despite her... _orientation_ being as blinding and scorching as the three pm afternoon sun burning freckles on your shoulders (or as blatant as the labrys tattoo inked on the inside of her forearm), whenever she speaks (or perhaps barely-comprehensively drawl in that southern accent of hers) about her "relevant other" she keeps using the term "my partner", avoiding any pronoun whatsoever. As if her washed-out jeans overalls weren't enough to make you feel like you just got slapped back in the eighties... You prefer to think that her _partner _might identify as non-binary, because if you have to take into consideration some possible latent homosexuality or internalized homophobia or whatever, well... The fucking suburbs are depression enough as they are with all the lonely housewives with plastic-smiles and drinking problems.

"The rest of the crew' seething with jealousy though, I'm tellin' ya." She adds to her previous comment during your lunch break spent hiding from the unforgiving sun under the wood gazebo of the house which lawn you have spent half the morning re-designing. There is a light breeze, and cicada and crickets chirping all around you. Besides the heat, it's nice.

"They can have them," You shrug taking another bite of your lunch, completely disinterested in playing a part in the whole bullshit testosterone struggle.

You got your wife pregnant.

That's really all the masculinity you need to feel pretty Alpha.

"Long gone are for me the_ 'leap-ass-naked-out-the-window 'cause the husband has arrived home'_ days." You tell her, smiling around a bite of the leftover stir fry that Piper has made last night when you find a Trail Mix packet hiding under the suspiciously unbalanced fruit compartment of your lunch box with a sticky note on it and your wife's elegantly messy handwriting: _"For the afternoon low-blood-sugar crisis" _it says. And you don't have to wonder who has drawn the red little heart at the bottom of the note.

"Now I've got two wonderful girls waiting for me at home every day." You smirk.

It's the only thing that keeps the rest of the crew from flirting with you. Well _that,_ and the whole sexual harassment threat that your boss has made sure could penetrate within the thick skulls you work with.

"It's really all I can ask for..." You add, quietly, through a far softer, more pensive smile.

And it really is.

A loud groan brings you out of your reverie, the emphasis on it and exaggerated eye-roll suggesting that you haven't been as quiet as you thought upon uttering that mostly inward truth.

"Oh for Christ's dimpled butt cheeks,_ Vause!_ You know I'm a pre-diabetic, right?" You almost choke on the grape you just popped in your mouth at your boss' creative swear.

**. . .**

It takes a bit to get used to the new routine, but you manage just okay.

Initially, you get home every single day sore and winded, smelling of sweat and manure. Itching with mosquitos bites, thorns scrapes and reddish scratches adorning your arms like fresh tattoos, feeling so sore and so tired that you can _barely_ summon the necessary strength to dismiss Piper's shameless flirting at your overall exhausted, _dirty _appearance and throw yourself under the hot spray of the shower.

Mistery of mysteries, even though you always use your gardening gloves at work, you still manage to find dirt stuck underneath your fingernails when you come out from your twenty minutes long of scrubbing._ Huh._

Afterward, you fall on the bed in a heap of moist hair and dry clothes clinging on a layer of body lotion, glad for the reflex that makes your lungs expand of their own at the impact with the mattress.

It's an exhausting job (and you have been sitting on your hands for two years,_ almost_). But... you definitely like it.

It doesn't make you feel out of your element like being a bartender or working ten hours with your head ducked as an automaton in some factory would have most certainly made you feel.

It's far from being your dream job, since you (same as Piper) are more of a left-brained person. But getting to exercise your more creative side turns out being... _interesting_.

Feeling useful and being finally able to provide for your family, however, is what's more rewarding about it all. And that's how you have come to associate that soreness and tiredness with the consequent sense of contentedness.

For once, things might be hard, but they are also_ good, too_.

**. . .**

Some times, very occasionally, you manage to bring home some leftover flowers to your wife beside the many pictures that you send her of them whenever you are arranging compositions, and to which most of the time, (like today for example, since it's her midweek day off) she replies with some shameless, lewd comment about the shape of the petals and _what_ they remind her of, that makes you snort into your mid-day coffee thermos.

For once, when you think you are being romantic...

_'Pervert'_ You type back. And just to prove you how _right_ you are and make you suffer, in retaliation she sends you a picture of her hand dipping just under the waistband of what you recognize being one of your sleeping boxer shorts, barely offering a glimpse of the smooth skin hiding underneath. It doesn't leave much for interpretation, but it surely makes the rest of the afternoon incredibly longer to go through. And working under the heat of the sun definitely doesn't help in cooling down your already sizzling thoughts.

"Should I spray you with the hose, Vause?" Your boss offers from the bed of her truck where she is checking her insulin before sorting through her options of snacks, flashing you a knowing, shit-eating grin and wiggling her eyebrows.

When your phone chimes with a new message and you open it only to find a far more explicit picture taken from a far more intimate, _moister_ angle, you are_ extremely_ tempted to accept your's boss' offer. Or straight-out throw yourself in the garden pond of the neighboring mansion.

Instead, you guzzle the rest of your iced coffee before replying.

_'You are going to be in so much trouble when I get back home.'_

_'That's what I'm hoping for, Mistress.'_ She replies, attaching another picture. And even though it's nothing as explicit as the previous one, your insides still clench on themselves when you see the array of toys that she has selected and ordinately laid out onto your bed.

Among all the harnesses and ropes, the dildos and plugs of various shapes and sizes, it is the riding crop the item that has liquid heat melt in your lower belly just _thinking_ about holding it in your hand.

There is only one little matter you need to settle though before you can even start to fantasize about all the ways you could use it on her...

_'Polly offered to babysit at her place tonight.'_

But, apparently, Piper is already three steps ahead of you.

_Eager much?_ You already know it.

"Something tells me you are going to have a busy night," If possible, the smile on your boss' face has gotten even wider by the time you look up from your phone. "Just tell your sweet half that I'm going to need you in one piece tomorrow morning for that installation in Brooklyn."

"I'm going to be just fine." You assure her dismissively.

Piper on the other hand... You bite on the inside of your cheek to contain your smirk. _She_ is the one who will have to lecture her class while _standing_ tomorrow.

**. . .**

It starts around the holidays, and _o__f course_ it does. Because, apparently, there is only _one thing_ that a five-years-old wants for Christmas.

"A puppy!" She exclaims excitedly, flashing you that grin that is a mirror of your own, albeit holding the innocence of infancy that you have long lost, and adorned with a pair of dimples that are far too familiar.

You sigh, rubbing tiredly at your eyes from underneath your glasses. This isn't going to be easy _at all_.

"We can't keep a puppy, baby girl." You tell her, softening your voice and doing all you can to sound as gentle and saddened upon delivering that information as she instantly feels when you do.

"Oh..." Her little shoulders sag, her head ducks and Jesus Christ it's not_ fair_ that she gets the smile from you but the disappointed, sad look from Piper. You swear she might have actually taught it to her, because when she looks back up at you, it's almost like it is your wife who is gazing at you through those huge, blue eyes, seeing only a bit of yourself sprinkled among the flecks of green and gold swimming in that limpid innocent sea that turns the color of earth towards the center.

"Why?" She asks eventually, and it's even less fair that she doesn't sound upset but just... so, _so_ sad.

You stay on your guard though. Because under that innocent look staring up at you from underneath a fringe of dark brown hair, there might be a whole plot designed to make you crumble.

"Because," You start, kneeling down beside her desk, getting closer to her eye level. "Puppies need lots of attention. Mom and I work, and you are at school during the day. The puppy would feel lonely here all by it- himself."

She stays quiet for a minute, scrunching up her face pensively and making the constellation of freckles that crosses the bridge of her nose briefly collide into each other, forming a new pattern of sprinkles.

"I wouldn't want him to feel lonely." It's what she says eventually, and even though the sadness is still there, shifting into resignment, the way she nods with conviction makes her look so surprisingly, sincerely understanding.

It's kind of heartbreaking. But your chest still bursts with pride in front of her incredibly mature reaction.

And maybe that's what motivates you to hand her a careful glimmer of hope by telling her that "Maybe when you'll be a bit older we can talk about it again, all right?"

That's all it takes to see her smile again. "Okay!" She nods enthusiastically.

"Good girl." You chuckle and kiss the top of her head, smoothing the hair back from her forehead as you pull back and stand. "In the meantime, you put something else in your Christmas list, okay duckling?"

Her eyes brighten up with a fresh, seemingly genius idea and... a part of you is genuinely amazed by how alike Piper some of her expressions are. This one in particular though, has your stomach clench on itself. Already dreading what such idea that has just crossed her mind might be when you see her face splitting into another one of those huge, irresistible grins.

"Can I have a little sister then?"

...Jesus

_Fuck._

**. . .**

"I almost told her yes to the puppy in the end, just... out of panic. Got saved from your mother ringing the doorbell."

You do realize that there probably are one or two things wrong with the second half of that sentence. It still feels... weird, having an honestly _good _relationship with your mother-in-law, and that's probably part of why it has you sneer, and Piper almost fainting from laughing when you replay to her the whole conversation you had with your daughter.

"I came _far_ too close to the whole bees and birds conversation," You manage to suppress a shudder at the thought, but the grimace is still there, etched seeming permanently on your features. "Which I'm really hoping to delay till puberty." You conclude, getting into bed and slipping under the covers that your wife has already braved and warmed up for you.

Piper snorts unceremoniously. "Not gonna happen babe, she's far too smart."

_Damn right she is._ Whenever she is not drawing or glued to some wildlife and nature documentary, she can be found with her nose stuck in a book, while most of her classmates can't even read yet.

Just like you at her age, she prefers to find adventures within the pages of a book rather than in the storage box containing her toys. Although... She does like playing with fluffy stuffed animals. But which kid doesn't?

"Was she disappointed?" Piper asks, quietly, the lightness of humor in her voice replaced with a measure of concern.

You shake your head. "No. Not more than when I told her that we couldn't get her a puppy. And even there she understood."

You are both silent for a few moments as you take off your glasses and Piper closes her book and shuts off the lamp on her nightstand, scooting towards the center of the bed where you always meet at the end of the day.

And even though the way she sighs contently against the crook of your neck as soon as you gather her in your arms provides an answer to the question that has been swirling in your mind for the rest of the afternoon, you still decide to ask her.

"You okay with how things are now..._ right?_"

You wince at the awkward thread of nervousness that weaves itself without your consent into your voice when you speak.

"I mean..." You clear your throat and try again only to get interrupted by a kiss on the side of your neck and the feeling of a warm hand slipping underneath your sleeping shirt.

You inhale sharply.

"Things aren't simply okay, Al." She says, pulling back from the crook of your neck to face you and allow you to see the sincerity of that statement. For a few moments, you find yourself getting a bit lost in the way the blue-ish/white glow of the moonlight makes those seemingly bottomless lakes ripple so placidly. "They are _wonderful_." She corrects. "And in case that's what you were actually wondering, three is the perfect number for me."

You release a breath that you might have been holding since this afternoon, when the possibility of expanding further your household had inevitably crossed your mind after the little, unexpected conversation that you had (thankfully managed to avoid) with your daughter.

"It is for me, too." You tell her, relieved, reaching out to play with an errand strand of golden hair, twirling it distractedly between your fingers. "Besides," You continue, flashing her a tentative smirk and throwing in some much-needed humor to further lighten the air around you. "I don't think I have enough good eggs left to bake another little muffin and get you pregnant again."

You truly can't help but notice how the soft sizzle of affection that has been rippling in Piper's eyes blazes into something far less innocent and much warmer at the_ "get you pregnant" _bit_._

And you would be lying if you said that eliciting that glint of mischievousness - that gets soon reflected in the smirk that slowly but surely takes over her face - is _not_ the kind of reaction that you were hoping to elicit in her with your deliberate phrasing.

"We can still have fun trying and going against all the biological impossibilities, though._ Can't we?_" She asks, teasingly, drawing tantalizing circles with her index further down your navel.

With the flash of that smirk, she resumes her attack of kisses, teasing nibbles and... adventurous, exploring fingers slipping down the waistband of your sleeping boxer shorts.

Whatever answer you had ready, gets stuck on your palate before melting into a groan that slips down your throat and rumbles deep in your chest when she sucks your earlobe between her lips, nibbling at it with her teeth, straddling your waist and (in the same swift movement) sliding her hand lower, where her purposeful fingers are enthusiastically greeted by a fresh spill of moist heat.

**. . .**

That conversation pretty much settled it.

You have mutually agreed to maintain things the way they are.

This way you and Piper can raise your child with all the attention that she needs, and it also allows you and your wife to spend some... _intimate,_ _quality time_ with yourselves in between the constant juggle of all your duties.

So that's how things remain.

At least for the next year or so.

_Until..._

**. . .**

Over the years, you may have gotten used to the kind of physical exertion that comes with your job, but your body is taking the chance of reminding you day after day that you are no longer in your thirties, and no longer in the conditions to stay crunched down for hours on end or drag wheelbarrow after wheelbarrow of dirt.

You are sore, tired, your feet are killing you, your back is as stiff as the boards of the fence you had to help install around the perimeter of a house. And you are _dreaming_ about getting with Piper into a long, hot, bubble bath with scented candles and maybe a glass of Bordeaux as soon as you get home.

However, it seems like your six-years-old daughter is going to delay all of that.

You always take the same route to get back home from school.

It takes twelve minutes of walking at a normal pace. Fourteen if you miss the green light at the far-too-slow crosswalk.

Also, usually, she walks right beside you, and you don't let her get out of your sight. Today, however, that's not the case. It's snowed last night, which is awfully early for the season, and the white mantle crunching underneath your boots is well known to be one the main sources of a child's entertainment, especially given the rarity of it.

But that's not what seems to be slowing down your daughter.

"I'm going home without you and snack on all your pumpkin cookies," You call over your shoulder, hoping that the threat to feast on her favorite treats will get her to move along, but when you aren't met with the usual and much-expected pleading reply followed by small feet hurriedly trying to catch up with you... that's enough to prompt you to turn around with a bit of alarm that grows to a whole new level when you see that she hasn't been lingering behind you to play with the snow as you expected.

Instead, you find her there, standing several steps behind you, backpack swung in front of her, head ducked as she looks inside it, murmuring something under her breath and making what sounds like shushing noises.

The word "quiet" stands out. But it might have been distorted by the wind.

Still, you frown.

"Everything all right there, monkey? Forgot something at school?" You ask her, approaching her, the frown of mild confusion dashed with a hint of amusement on your face getting replaced completely by concern when her head snaps up and those big blue-hazel eyes lock with you, wide and startled.

She didn't hear you approach.

"Um... N-no." She closes her backpack in a hurry and it almost slips out of her grasp.

"If it's too heavy I can take it," You offer, but as soon as you reach out to relieve her of the weight, she wraps both her arms protectively around it. "No, it's okay! I-I got it!"

The... puzzling reaction gets set aside however when you hear something rattling loosely inside the bag and a quiet, muffled chirping like noise comes from within.

Your gaze snaps up to search your daughter's suddenly fleeting, uncharacteristically timid eyes.

"What was _that_?"

"N-nothing!" She rambles hurriedly. "I-I didn't hear anything."

God... She is as bad in lying as her mother.

"Casey?"

Still nothing.

You stare her down with pursed lips and narrowed eyes, arms crossed over your chest.

"_Cassandra?_"

The authority of your posture and the seriousness of your tone as you call her by her full name has her yielding, and you only loosen up your stance when you see her shrink a little, squirming on the spot.

"Baby what is it?" You try again, a bit more softly, crunching down to be at her same eye level and biting down a groan at the creaking noise that your knees do in the movement.

She traps her bottom lip between her teeth, chewing on it contemplatively before finally lifting her eyes to look at you from under her still guiltily ducked head. "Promise not to be mad?"

She doesn't wait for you to answer or even absorb what in heaven she might be talking about that got her so upset and reluctant. You don't even have the chance to get worried on something specific that she lays her backpack on the ground and, with her bear-shaped mittens covered hands, opens it and, very carefully, retrieves a shoebox from inside it.

There is a sharp pang in your stomach that radiates through your system and condenses into the kind of realization and trepidation that makes you forget about your tiredness in an instant.

Because you already know what's inside it.

You know it as soon as you see the holes that have been methodically carved along its sides.

You know it before you can hear that much louder, yet still tiny, weak chirping noise coming from inside it.

You know it before your daughter takes off the lid to reveal...

"A... _duckling_?"

The little, yellow feathered chick inside the box makes itself even smaller, blinking its tiny eyes to adjust to the light when the lid gets removed.

It shudders at the cold gust of wind that seeps between the bared trees, finding refuge against the cotton stuffing that one inside of the box has been meticulously lined up with to provide warmth.

You look up at your daughter, bewildered and wide-eyed.

"I found her near the school fence," She explains without you even prompting her to. Her voice quiet and timid, head still ducked, deliberately avoiding your disbelieving, puzzled gaze.

"She was wandering around, all alone. I-I think she was left behind by her mom and brothers."

Among the many, many thoughts suddenly crowding your head, there it the question of _where_ it might have come from. But after you think about it for a second, the lake in the park near the school comes to mind. You don't remember seeing ducks there though, but without any other option left (and with definitely no farm nearby) you can't help but wonder if it could have come from there.

"When..." At last, as soon as you have recovered from the rather... _unexpected _revelation, your voice also decides to collaborate and assist you with all the questions cramping your mind. "When did you find it exactly?"

"Monday morning in the yard during recess." She replies, not missing a beat. "She looked scared and cold. So I hid her behind the garden toolshed, because there wasn't wind there and built a fence with sticks and brought her some bread and water from the cafeteria after lunch." There is a short pause as she looks down at the duckling she has taken such great care of for four days. "She was very hungry, too." She murmurs.

The question about how she managed to approach her in the first place gets answered when she reaches out and, much to your amazement, the duckling not only allows it, but actually _leans_ into the finger gently stroking its tiny crowd. The sight is enough to make the rest of the concern that had swelled inside your chest melt into something that is as infinitely soft and light as those fluffy yellow feathers probably are.

"Why didn't you tell your teacher?" You ask her tentatively as she withdraws her hand, earning a chirp of discontentment in return.

"I dunno..." She rubs her elbow, shrugs, and half-heartedly kicks the snow on the ground. But you see right under that layer of uncertainty. Luckily, you don't have to insist. You don't think you would have had it in you to press her, she looks... pretty guilty already.

"I think that maybe she imprinted on me?" She asks rather than state after a minute. "She kept... following me around the yard and..."

With each word her voice grows more and more feeble until it trails off completely, but it's when she looks up and you see the tears that have welled up in her eyes, and notice the tremble of her chin that your heart actually cracks open, so painfully that it knocks the air out of your lungs. But it's still nothing compared to the pang that you feel - harsh, and unforgiving like a punch in the solar plexus that leaves you winded - when, after carefully putting down the box with shaky hands, she flings herself into your arms.

You huff at the impact. The force of it almost knocking you down on your ass, but you manage to keep your balance and sit back on your haunches.

"I'm sorry mom!" She cries into your chest. Voice thick. Words muffled by the wool of your coat. "I j-just wanted to bring her home because of the snow. I didn't want her to die for the cold!"

The cracks in her voice resonate right within your chest, tearing another breach in your heart.

Instinctively you wrap your arms around her little frame, and hold her.

She is shaking.

"Hey... hey, it's okay, baby." You comfort her, stroking her back, easing her quiet sobs. "I'm not mad..." You promise, and upon hearing that, the crying stops, she sniffles and, tentatively, pulls back.

"R-really?" She hiccups.

You smile at her and shake your head, reaching out to wipe away the tears from those pretty, freckled cheeks.

"No, I'm not." You reassure her. "But I still wish you told me instead of trying to sneak her into our house without my knowledge." The gentleness in your voice takes away any real grudge from that reprimand.

"Did you really think your mama and I wouldn't have found out about it eventually?" You ask her, skeptically, because she is smart, and you are surprised that she hasn't thought this through. On the other hand... it shows how desperately worried she was.

And you can't blame her for being a compassionate kid. Only be proud in knowing that she would go to such extents to save a little animal.

"I was going to tell, I promise!" She swears and... You are actually inclined to believe the sincerity that you find reflected into those big, wide, teary blue-hazel eyes.

You heave a sigh and nod. "All right..."

There is a minute of silence as she picks back up the shoe box, where the baby duck has taken advantage of your emotional moment to fold into itself right in the center of the cocoon of cotton stuffing.

Its eyes are fluttering shut with sleep.

And _damn it._

It looks so damn cute.

You sigh again and look up at your daughter, who is looking back at you so innocently in her silent expectation and failing miserably when she dismisses her patience and decides to take a more direct approach. "So... what do we do now?"

God... She is so alike Piper that is _painful_.

It's hard to contain the smile itching at the corner of your mouth, but you don't want to give away too soon the (obvious) decision you have already reached.

You exhale a long breath through your nose, evaluating the situation and thinking once again about your options.

There aren't many.

"Now we go home, I'll make some hot cocoa while you do your homework, and when your mom gets home we are going to talk about it."

She is young. But she knows that this one you have just laid out for her is a _very_ promising (the _most _promising) plan that is likely to get her what she _clearly _wants: Keep the cute duckling as a pet.

"Does that mean... that I can keep her?" There it is.

Even her tears seem to get sucked back in the tear ducts. Despite the cautions of your carefully chosen words, she is already all excitement and dimples and wide bright eyes that have cleared into the most limpid blue that, once again, reminds you of Piper in every little shade.

How the _hell_ could you _ever_ say "no" to that face?

"For the moment." It's what you settle for at last, making sure to emphasis the _"moment"_ part. But it's useless. She is already whooping and jumping excitedly, yet carefully, and talking to the baby duck.

"Did you hear that Francine?!"

You wince. She has already given it _a name_. As if you had deluded yourself that there was another option on the table that wasn't keeping it.

"You get to stay with me and my _awesome _moms for a while!"

"Yeah, yeah, all right, all right... Enough with the flattery." You calm her down, and after a moment, when she has obediently settled down her excitement to just a gentle buzz that has her bouncing on the balls of her feet, and after you have taken another look down at the (admittedly extremely cute) duckling, you wince again as a thought- a sudden_ concern _regarding the baby duck safety crosses your mind.

"Just... Don't show it or even tell your old aunt Red about it until _after_ Thanksgiving, okay monkey?"

She tilts her head at you, shoulders sagging and brow scrunched up with confusion. "Why?" She whines, clearly disappointed for not being allowed to tell her favorite aunt about her new little... _friend_.

You sigh again, smothering a grimace at the sharp pain on your back when you move to stand up. "Let's just say that she has a... well-known, and rather _controversial relationship_ with Galliformes and Anseriformes birds in general. _Especially_ around the holidays."

You are not sure if she fully understands you. Too many big words for a six-years-old, even if she spends a lot of time watching wildlife shows. But the way her tiny arms wrap protectively around the newly closed shoebox, tells you that she might have actually understood the general meaning of what you have deliberately left _unsaid _to not risk and traumatize her.

You smile at her.

Because even though she could have told you about all of this, she has still-

"You did good, monkey." You praise her. "It was a very selfless gesture taking care of this little guy." You pat her beanie and she grins up at you, a bright and proud smile at the big word that has her push her little shoulders back and stand a bit taller.

It's definitely a gesture of benevolence that deserves to be properly recognized. And she is right to feel proud about it.

However, utterly selfless reasons aside for saving a little duckling that got lost (or has been left behind by its family) you just hope that the ego boost you have given her will not elicit a chain reaction that will reach Piper's levels, and that you won't get stuck on the way through the door once you'll finally get home because of it. And also hoping that praising her good heart and (why not) heroism even, isn't going to end up with your house slowly turning into a zoo.

**. . .**

Piper is going to be of no help in the matter.

You know it as soon as she sees the duckling and, after an initial squeal at the sight of the undistinguished ball of feathers, she melts into an awing puddle at its irresistible fluffy cuteness.

"I think we should let her keep it." She tells you later that night when it's just the two of you.

_Great._

"She has shown a lot of responsibility and commitment."

To that though, you can't debate. You can't say anything except agree with pride.

And... Perhaps Piper is right.

The whole deal with the pet issue was the responsibility that usually lacks in a kid of your daughter's age. But she has already proven to be responsible and caring. And she has also proved over and over again that she is not like any six years old.

As your resolution crumbles, you wonder why you had been so reluctant in the first place.

**. . .**

Visiting the park near the school to make sure that there are no ducks roaming in the area, (there aren't, just like you remembered) is pretty much how deep you go in your little investigation to find out from where the duckling might have come from.

It leaves you puzzled and... a bit sad.

Poor thing.

Left behind.

It doesn't even have one of those metal identification numbers wrapped around its shank, so even what has been your first alternative possibility that it might belong to some eccentric pet-owner is erased.

Still, you bring it to a veterinary, to make sure it doesn't have Avian flu or whatever, and to establish if it is safe to have around an excitable (albeit very smart and mature) six years old.

"I don't see why not," The veterinary smiles after having assured you of the safeness and health of the little thing. "Ducks make good company. And this one seems like a sweet, friendly fellow. Young lady, you sure took good care of him." He applauds your daughter, who grins through a faint blush and carefully scoops back up her... pet from the examination table with her hand.

He snuggles happily into the cradle made by her cupped palms.

That pretty much settles it.

You are going to use that portion of the patio differently than how you had initially imagined.

And also, for the first time in your life, you are going to share the house with a male figure apparently, since it seems like your little girl has misgendered her- _him_.

So Francine transitions into Francis.

And, initial concerns aside, you don't think you'll have problems with the man of the house being... a goose. _Ha!_

You save that one for Piper when you get back home.

She groans at the terrible pun and (fighting off a smile) threatens to divorce you.

**. . .**

Sometimes, when you get back home in the afternoon, after you have picked up Cassandra at school, showered the dirt and sweat of a long-ass day of hard work away, and after you have made yourself and your daughter a healthy snack, you even manage to take a nap on the couch while she quietly does her homework on the coffee table.

Just... to rest your eyes for a blissful half an hour before you get up again to tidy up a few things around the house. Like...

Check if there is laundry that needs to be put to wash or clean one that has yet to be folded.

Unload the dishwasher.

Make sure Red hasn't swung by and kidnapped your duck, ball-gagged him, plucked him, and tied him up in a complicated, kinky shibari made of kitchen twine, ready for dressing and roasting.

That one seems like the most pressing matter/concern.

Or rather it _would_ if Cassandra hadn't already checked up on him first thing, like she always does as soon as you come home from school, feeding him some watermelon and taking the occasion to play with him while you take your shower.

You catch sight of him happily paddling around the small pool you have bought for him and set in the patio when you come out from your hot steamy shower, towel drying your hair and heading for the kitchen, barefoot and changed in some comfortable, loose sweats.

Piper left you a sticky note on the fridge, saying that there are some vegetables inside it that are about to get spoiled and that you should prepare them for dinner.

_Later,_ you think, releasing a long yawn. For the moment you just wash an apple, peel it, slice it, get a tablespoon of peanut butter and some yogurt to make a creamy dip.

"You're not snacking with me?" Your daughter asks, both confused and a bit disappointed when you set the single bowl near the books she has opened on the coffee table, already all set for homework.

You smile and kiss the top of her head. She is such a good kid.

"I think I'm just gonna nap," You reply, rounding the coffee table to plop down on the couch with a sigh as all your joints crack at once. "You go ahead and snack on, monkey. Just-"

"_-remember to wake you up in an hour or if I need help,_ I know, I know." She concludes around a bite of apple.

"Sassy." You smirk.

She grins, because from you, it's a compliment.

Your phone chimes with a message and you turn your attention to it just as Cassandra turns hers diligently to her homework.

It's Piper. Reminding you that this evening she is going to get home late. Parent-teacher conference.

You reply that you'll have dinner ready for when she arrives, and in response to that she sends you the heart and the eggplant emoji, because she is literally sixteen, and a kinky dork with a one-track mind even when she is trying to remind you about the vegetables you are supposed to take care of.

By the time you put your phone down, your daughter has finished licking the dip bowl and is opening her mouth as wide as a snake to release a yawn, trying to blink and rub the tiredness away from underneath her reading glasses, and trying to focus without making faces at a far too long math expression that is most likely bound to end with an abominably, heinously grave error under the influence of what you recognize being actual sleep at the second, much longer and louder yawn that comes after a couple of minutes.

"You sleepy, monkey?"

She ducks her head and nods, somehow embarrassed for having been caught, but not enough to not make a timid request.

"Can I... take a nap with you?"

"Of course you can," You chuckle, scooting on your left to make some more space. "Hop on, you little sloth."

"You know that sloths' fur grows backward?" She mumbles as she stands up from the carpet and crawls her way up the couch. You smirk because God... even when she is barely keeping her eyes open she doesn't give up the chance to be such a lovable geek. And it's impossible for you to not compare that quirk with Piper's own adorable dorkiness.

"It's because they hang upside down on trees for most of their life." She explains.

"Yeah I know, cool isn't it?" Instead of settling in the little space that you have made for her, however, she chooses to slump right on top of you in a drowsy heap. "_Ow!_ And if they have been around for sixty-four million years by adopting the '_keep calm and chill_' life approach, then I think we can _definitely _take a half an hour to be just as lazy, right?" You tickle her on her ribs and she squirms and giggles before settling on your front with another yawn.

You kiss the top of her head and run a hand through her short dark hair.

It's getting long again. And she is generally getting big. But her weight is... as comforting as it's always been.

You stroke her back up and down, like you used to when she was a baby. And it's a trick that still works since the gesture alone (and her own drowsiness) has her breathing evening out within a minute.

Listening to it tears off the rest of your already slipping awareness, and before you know it, you find yourself plummeting into that realm, too.

The last conscious thought of setting the alarm on your phone replaced by the blissfulness of a restful nothingness.

**. . .**

You don't know how long it passes.

But it's quite sometime later when you are stirred awake by the sound of keys rattling in the door lock, and the staccato of heels clicking on the hardwood floor.

Reluctantly and still disoriented, you blink your eyes open only to be met with a soft blue glow enveloping the living room.

The sunlight that was filling the surroundings earlier has turned into a thin, long, bright shaft of orange that has slid all the way across the room, and is now diagonally bisecting your entrance.

Awareness returns to you slowly, firstly making you acknowledge the weight on your chest, followed by the steady raise and fall under your hand, and then, as the rest of the haze of sleep dissolves and your thoughts condense once again you realize that you have plunged in something much longer than what you remember was supposed to be a short afternoon nap.

The clicking of heels gets smothered by the carpet as a figure enters your line of vision.

A moment later, as your eyes adjust, you find Piper looking down at you.

Her expression an indistinguishable blur without the lenses of your glasses to provide a clearer image.

"Pipes, h-hey..." Your voice is hoarse when you speak, scratchy, heavy with sleep, throat parched because you didn't even get a glass of water when you came home, and to top all of that, you also probably have the worst case in history of bed head since you didn't dry your hair properly and yet, you swear that the one that your wife is giving you, is a smile.

It's most likely that your eyes and your still fogged-up brain are lying to you though.

Because slowly, tonight's plans come back to you. And the first one is the reminder that she was going to be home late...

"Shit..." You curse under your breath, slowly shaken awake by the reality taking form once again. You try to lift yourself up only to be held down by the weight of your sleeping daughter.

You peer down at her.

Poor thing.

She must have been_ exhausted_, too.

Not wanting to wake her up (even though you definitely should) you just... lay there, speaking in a hushed tone. "What time is it?" You ask through a grimace, dreading the answer.

Piper's features get briefly illuminated by the glow of her phone. "Six thirty..."

Six-

_Holy shit!_

Your eyes widen something comical at the sudden assault of all the things you were meant to do around the house almost has you jump out of your skin and leap on your feet from the couch.

Once again, you are only stopped from doing so by your daughter. Still quietly snoring. So blissfully oblivious to all the trouble you are about to get into.

"Shit Pipes, I'm sorry... I just... We were..." By now you should have already checked Cassandra's homework, chopped those vegetables rotting in the fridge and have dinner almost ready.

Instead, you have slept for one hour and a half on the couch and-

_Fuck. _

She must be upset, about all of this. Also because you let your daughter nap for so long, and putting her to bed tonight isn't going to be easy.

But Piper is crouching down.

And... she is_ smiling?_.

You barely get a glimpse of it before she is leaning in, silencing you with a kiss. Cutting off your painfully disorganized, sleepy rambling.

Your mind might still be trying to catch up and tear itself out from a whole other dimension, but your body, under that initial shock and confusion that has you hold your breath and freeze on the spot for a moment, surely knows how to respond.

You kiss her back and savor the gentleness of her lips moving against yours with no resentment. Just reassurance and... the same amount of affection that makes that kiss taste all the sweeter.

When you part, you are a bit dazed, but you still manage to summarize your previous rambling into just one simple phrase.

"I wanted to get dinner and everything else ready by the time you arrived."

Her eyes show the same tiredness you saw staring back at you in the mirror when you first came home, but she still cups your face and looks at you with such tenderness that it physically aches. In the most beautiful way.

"It's okay," She reassures, speaking softly to not wake your daughter. "We can do all of that together."

Instantly, you feel silly for even just brushing the thought that she was going to be upset about..._ this_.

And then you feel like a total _idiot_ when she takes in the sight of you and your daughter sandwiched on the couch, looking at you with the same infinite tenderness she used to when Cassandra was much smaller and you used to take naps like this all the time.

She reaches out and strokes her hair, kissing the top of her head.

And it's in this moment that, for the very first time, it really dawns on you.

This... is _your life_ now.

Favoring these quiet moments of domesticity - fitting in between full-time jobs, busy schedules and motherhood - over getting upset for little, foolish reasons that have an easy solution.

You and Piper both know what's important now.

What are the things that truly matter.

Nothing seems worthy arguing over after you almost lost your everything.

Heaven knows you have done enough of the "arguing" part to last for three lifetimes.

But this...

This life you have created is..._ different._

In this new life, you are _married_.

You have a daughter.

And-

As if on cue, the quick padding of webbed feet on the hardwood floor, and the loud quacking of a fully grown duck comes in greeting as Francis enters the living room.

So unconventionally perfect.

You part from the kiss with a laugh. Cassandra groans and mumbles a sleepy "five more minutes, Fran" before turning her head to face the back of the couch.

You and Piper smile at each other before she stands, kicks off her heels, sheds her coat and snuggles, fitting just _perfectly _right onto that space left on the couch that you had carved earlier for your daughter before she chose your chest as her pillow instead.

You lay there. All three of you.

For those few more minutes.

You would like to describe the moment as frozen in time. But it's not.

It's anything but static.

It hangs in the air like something alive and buoyant.

It's dynamic. Like the ripples of affection that you catch in the pools of Piper's eyes when you wrap your free arm around her lithe frame to bring her closer.

Warm like the marigold orange glow of the setting sun lingering in your entrance.

And... as safe and comforting as the weight of your daughter sleeping on your chest, Piper's hand cupping and stroking adoringly your cheek, and... the taste of home that you find on her lips.

* * *

**As I had hinted in the previous chapter, (and as someone has correctly guessed from those few info) I couldn't think of a more appropriate name for a Vauseman baby girl than Cassandra. As a cursed prophetess, no one would ever believe her prophecies, and Vauseman got through a great deal of pain when Piper wouldn't believe Alex's concerns in season three. She made up for that though :) And so, as a mutual reminder to always trust each other word (and what would happen if they don't) I chose this beautiful name and found it... particularly fitting given their past. Anyway... One more chapter to go now guys :)**


	9. Chapter 9

Hi there!

So, uh, did I say that this was going to be the last chapter? Because it turns out that there is actually another one to come, lol. :P Yeah, same old excuse, I know, my bad. I truly wanted (and tried) to fit the epilogue all in one chapter, but then (as usual) I got so carried away with a few parts here that the chapter just got way too long, so, once again, since the tone of the other half was a bit different, I decided to split it. Seems like I'm going to have to postpone my other projects for a bit longer, which, as I mentioned, my plans also included try to finally catch up with the show.

I'm just going ahead and parrot away the whole "Please, bla-bla-bla, no spoilers bla-bla-bla, no comments/personal opinions bla-bla-bla, or mentions of anything regarding season six or seven". I've pretty much been covering my ears and going "la la la" every time anyone has even mentioned to me the color "orange" for the past year. So... yeah, thank you guys for being so patient with me and so considerate with this "issue" :)

Now, let's go back to this story.

We are moving towards the more "troubling" teenage years in this chapter, supposedly characterized by rebellious behavior and awkward conversations. Well, sort of :P

Enjoy

* * *

She has been sitting there, arms crossed and head ducked, gaze dutifully diverted downwards, ever since you arrived.

Either she finds the pattern of the tiles outside her Principal's office _exceptionally _captivating in their repetitive design (which is actually the same dull one adorning of the rest of the halls), or she simply doesn't want to find out what kind of look she would be met with if she dared to glance up at you.

The answer is easy, and obvious enough.

Concern.

And more than an ounce of disappointment.

But mostly concern.

You still haven't managed to get your heart to properly slow down to a somewhat more acceptable rhythm.

Ever since the school called you in fact, and forced you to leave work, it has been slamming against your ribs with apprehension, even after you got informed about what happened and assured that your daughter was okay and unharmed.

Well, mostly.

Kind of.

The bruise on the side of her face, near her chin, and the busted lip that she mercilessly keeps teasing by running the tip of her tongue over the entire length from the inside to ease the sting of the swelling there, seem to be the only visible injuries.

But you know that what caused them in the first place has sprung from a much deeper wound, inflicted by something caustic enough to burn her usually very calm and buoyant demeanor and reduce her into... this.

The principal informed you of what happened, and while you would like to ask your daughter for her version of the facts, right now you just want to take her home and apply some ice to that bruise swelling on the side of her mouth and tend to the little cut on her lip.

"Come on," You use as much of a neutral tone as you are able to given the circumstances, hoping that the effort that you put in trying to keep your voice steady and not let it crack with the emotions battling within you, doesn't make it come out too harsh, but you still make sure to sound authoritative enough to get her attention.

You succeed. With her gaze still diverted downwards, she stands and picks up her backpack, which weight only adds to the visible guilt already afflicting her posture.

By the time you get in the car, she still hasn't looked at you.

It's only halfway through the drive home that she speaks.

A quiet apology uttered barely above a murmur at a red light.

Her voice - so hoarse and a bit scratchy in its depth, resembling your own more and more with each passing day - disrupts the almost hypnotic, regular rhythm consisting of the tapping rain, the windshield wipers, and the blinker.

"I'm sorry, mama."

And it's exactly the quality of her voice - so thick, and wet, and strained - what makes you glance at her, and when you catch sight of those blue-hazel eyes shimmering with unshed tears, your heart clenches so painfully tightly on itself to make you forget entirely how to breathe.

It must have happened only a couple of times, but it never stops hurting in the same horrible way seeing your daughter looking so... distressed. Emotionally wounded.

You nod and swallow the thing awfully similar to a knot that seems to be made of spikes and nails, and that has lodged itself in your throat. Because not only she looks guilty and wounded, but also heartbroken at the possibility of having disappointed you and perhaps, for that very same reason, a bit ashamed, too, at the well-known knowledge that she is supposed to be better, and that this is not something that you or Piper ever taught her.

She has never been the kind of kid to get into trouble. Especially not a scuffle.

You wonder if it might be... genetic. A fraction of her dna that got lit up like something radioactive by that dangerous cocktail made of teenager hormones.

Whatever the case might be, you believe that the circumstances of what set her off, have made it somehow more... justifiable. Maybe even reasonable.

Even the Principal seemed to condone such actions, at least in part. And that's probably why your daughter hasn't been suspended like the other kid involved has been.

What's not fair though, is that she got to end up in such situation because of you and your tainted past, which you swore was never supposed to get anywhere near her and stain her with its corruption.

You look at her and sigh.

Maybe you have only been avoiding the inevitable by deluding yourself that it would have never affected her as long as you avoided the subject altogether.

Hard to do that though when all you have ever done in your previous life in prison (included that goddamned video and all the _mess _that it caused) is still out there, caught in the web. Literally.

"Okay." You nod, mostly to yourself as you reach a decision, pulling back into traffic once the light turns green.

You have delayed this long enough.

**. . .**

"We were in the computer lab,"

When Cassandra starts her tale, she does so without you prompting her to.

Just like you knew she would have when she was ready and had cooled down enough.

Her gaze - fixed vacantly on the first aid kit opened on the kitchen island where you both sit - as well as her voice, are as cold as the ice pack pressed against her cheek. Numbing the dull throb of pain there on her jaw into a mute torpor while you pour some peroxide on a cotton swab to disinfect the cut on her bottom lip, patiently waiting until you have finished before continuing.

"And there were these... guys," When she hisses it's not because of the sting of the disinfectant. And you certainly don't miss the twitch of anger and hatred that has her hand curl into a fist. "They were sitting in the row in front of me, all gathered around one on the desks. One of them was laughing at something on the screen and sneaking these creepy glances back at me a-and..."

Her voice shakes.

Her eyes glisten.

Her fist clenches tighter, until her reddened, bruised up knuckles almost turn white.

Before anger and hurt can collide again and result in a catastrophic implosion, you reach out to lay a hand on top of hers and, luckily, that's enough to bring her back and see the tension drain from her spine with her next shaky exhale.

She blinks out from those fresh, awful memories and swallows the tears that were rising from her throat.

You don't have to hear the rest.

She is already telling you so much without even talking.

"It's okay." You tell her, ducking your head to catch that blue-hazel gaze, offering her a little smile when you do.

"No, it's not." She argues. And she is right. But you are getting on in years. And ever since your prison-time, you have learned where your energies are worth being invested into, and where they are going to be wasted.

"When I went over and saw what they were watching and laughing at..." She takes another deep breath and releases it very slowly thought her nose. "I just got... so, _so_ mad, mama."

Despite the ache that swells in you at the sight of the hurt lurking on her features, you can't really help the smile that curls a bit higher on your lips upon hearing that simmer of anger that is still there; sizzling in her voice, and glowing just as fiercely in her eyes. Like the last crackling flames in a forest fire that is slowly dying down, but not completely extinguished yet. It looks so familiar.

"You really do have your mother's temper, don't you, kid?"

She lifts her head to properly look up at you with those big, clouded hazel-blue eyes of hers, blinking away the smoke that is still lifting in the wake of that devastation.

"I don't think I have ever seen mom get as angry as she was in that video." She mumbles in response to your observation, absently, clearly still shaken from witnessing something that despite your hopes, you knew she was bound to find out and see one day. "She was... furious." She comments, disbelieving. "Like... _scary _furious."

Yeah, like a bucking wild horse. That's what you remember, beside the throb of your freshly broken arm. The way she trashed and shouted.

Thank god she didn't manage to free herself and get to him, you think. Well... _that time_, at least.

You don't think you have forgiven her yet for trying to "_amend_" or whatever, the sense of powerlessness that she had experienced back then, by flinging herself at Kubra and trying to wrestle the gun off his grasp, stupidly risking her life like that without a second thought.

"And that guard..." Cassandra continues, bringing you back into the present with a grit of her teeth. Wincing at the sting that it brings to her aching, bruised jaw that not even the ice pack seems to be able to numb anymore. "What was he..._ why_ did he...?"

She looks at you with wide, disbelieving eyes full of anger and hurt, as if you hold all the answers to that nonsense.

You still don't.

You could reduce it to something like _"he wanted to teach us some sick kind of lesson, establish male dominance or whatever-the-fuck". _

Even just a simple, inarticulated _"he was a sociopath"_ would do the job and explain everything on its own.

At last, however, what you settle for is an earnest and dismissive "There is no reason good enough."

Because you don't want her to obsess over it. And because, at the same time, you want to remind her that you are supposed to be better.

That violence in general is not something she has to rely on to solve situations.

Well, unless your spouse has been kidnapped by a maniac, of course. Then a sharp shard of glass in the carotid artery is an acceptable, very reasonable and justifiable choice.

But... she gets the meaning in your incisive words.

Instantly.

She drops her gaze, a bit shamefully, and promptly looks at her reddened knuckles. Opening and closing her hand repeatedly.

"I don't even remember punching that pri- assho- _guy_." She corrects at the last moment, sheepishly, even though you would have most definitely given her a pass for swearing this time.

"I only realized I did when I felt the pain in my hand and heard all the commotion erupting around. It distracted me enough to not even see the punch coming."

She works her aching jaw then, shifting it from side to side, turning over the ice pack and pressing it a bit lower, closer to her chin. Witnessing her plain discomfort makes you simmer with anger from the inside. And it really takes you _a lot_ to remain here, sitting, instead than go retrieve your old pruning shears (the rusty ones that are still so incredibly sharp though) and go find and eviscerate the dipshit who_ dared to-_

Nope.

You force that thought out of you with your next deep, long exhale.

This is the only place where you need to be right now, you remind yourself.

And you have to be an example for your daughter. That means not give into your thirst for some vile teenager's blood.

Besides, the little sociopathic bastard got suspended already. School record permanently stained with a shit skid mark the length of California. Good luck getting into any college with _that_.

"Did you get him good at least or did you hurt your hand for nothing?" You ask her, aiming for humor, partially to lighten the air around you, but also unable to hide the concern that springs inside you when you see the way she flexes and rubs at her wrists.

You wince, while she twitches a feeble, embarrassed little smile at your question.

"Got him right in the nose." She states. "Made him bleed too. He started crying. Didn't look so tough or cocky then."

You would perhaps have applauded her, _if _it wasn't for the (far-too-satisfied) smirk that quirks up the uninjured side of her mouth, and that promptly gets smothered under the weight of the reprimanding look that you give her. Luckily, she doesn't seem to catch the little spark of amusement glimmering deep in your eyes mingled with perhaps a bit of pride upon receiving that information.

You can practically sense what she is going to ask you next after a couple of long seconds spent in a thoughtful silence.

"Can we..." She starts, only to pause and swallow nervously before trying again. "Is there a chance you won't tell mom about... what happened?"

Ahh, and there she is. At last.

The little girl who is so _terribly_ afraid of disappointing her mother, and who can't stand the possibility of finding out how that emotion would look like on her features, finally emerges from your now teenage daughter.

You can't help but smile at the sight of her most vulnerable self uttering such a hopeful request, even though you shake your head in negative.

"That's not how your mom and I handle things, kid." _Not anymore, at least_, you think, gratefully, squeezing her unbruised hand. The time when you and Piper kept things for yourselves is so far behind that you can barely catch a glimpse of it in the rearview mirror now.

Cassandra deflates immediately, but doesn't press further, probably because she already knew that this was the answer you were going to give her.

"Besides," You add, reaching out and gingerly cupping her face in your palm, inspecting her "indirect-riot-injury" a bit more closely, wincing at the darkening shade of red her skin is turning into on that spot. "Do you really think she won't notice the lovely bruise you got forming here?" You ask, tapping her jaw for emphasis, to which she answers by toughly biting back a pained "ow".

You chuckle. She glares, like a grumpy, overgrown puppy.

The smile slides off your face far too quickly under the heaviness of all the unsaid things floating in the air.

Better deal with those now, you reason.

"Look, Cassandra," You resume with a sigh, and despite being a groan-worthy start, your daughter actually refrains from giving into that much-expected reaction, maturely letting you continue without interrupting or giving you some over-exaggerated eye roll of annoyance.

"I know it must have been... a whole new level of awful watching that video, and I get it that you got angry,"

Dammit.

It still sounds like a huge understatement.

Terribly inappropriate. To simply reduce the whole experience exclusively on the blinding (albeit justifiable) anger that had possessed her during those moments.

Still...

"But you don't get to pick up a fight with some loser over something that happened almost two decades ago to me and your mom, okay? All that happened back there..." You pause, search for words while trying not to get sucked back into that time, into that cramped locker room. Lingering in the past just long enough for you to find the words you need to make your point here in the present.

"It's just not something that is worth a suspension and a stain in your immaculate school record. You understand?"

There is a long moment of silence as your words and the severity in them (delivered so very gently though), properly sink in along with the weight of the consequences that she has (luckily) avoided. This time at least.

She exhales then, long and slow as she nods with conviction. "Understood."

"Good." You nod, too. "Now come here."

She may be growing up (and be already up to your shoulder, almost), but she doesn't hesitate one moment before burying herself into your arms when you open them to scoop her into a hug. She holds on as tightly onto you as she used to when she was a little kid. Seeking for the same safeness and reassurance that you deliver by holding onto her just as tightly.

"I love you." You tell her, planting a kiss onto her hair and stroking her back.

"I love you too, mama." She sniffles.

You smile and bask in the relief and relative peace of this moment, and in the reassurance that she is going to be okay.

"I'm still grounded, aren't I?" She mumbles, fearfully, into the crook of your neck after a solid minute of hugging. The mingled tentativeness and worry in her voice makes you chuckle.

"Oh, yes." You confirm, and even though you will have to discuss the most appropriate punishment with Piper, you think she'll agree with what you are settling for. "Two weeks. No phone or internet access either."

"_What?!_" That is enough to have her pull back with a start. Eyes wide and disbelieving. "B-but-"

The stuttered protest comes with the exact amount of dismay that you were expecting.

"Nuh-uh, no buts." You resist those big hazel-blue puppy eyes and stand your ground with firmness, because, "I don't want you obsessing over the past and start digging up all the rest that went down during that period of our life."

Even though she looks like she might complain once more (as if you needed a reminder that this is Piper's daughter, too), eventually, she swallows down her protest and nods her assent. She remains silent for a few more moments, either pondering over her harsh punishment, trying to generally absorb the entire situation, or... even try to find another way to get the information she is after.

You know how she reasons. So you aren't even that surprised when she breaks the silence by asking you if, "What if... I asked you and mom instead?"

You might have sensed it coming, sure, but you can't not stiffen up upon receiving that request.

For how much you would like to deny it with a firm, unyielding no though, if there is something you have learned today is that you can't keep her out from your past. She is bound to find out every single thing eventually, and it's probably best if you and Piper share the experience yourselves rather than having your daughter finding out and reading either inaccurate or over-embellished articles above articles on the internet about all you have been through. All you have done. And all that has been done to the both of you.

She is old enough now.

And she is smart.

Rational. (Display of impulsiveness and textbook case of "Chapman temper" from today aside).

But... there is no doubt in you that she would understand.

"We'll probably need to discuss how to... approach the subject." You tell her, cautiously. "But if you _really_ wish to know something about our time in prison, then... I won't object."

You could. But it's been made abundantly clear that you can't keep your previous life from her.

"And I don't think your mom will either." You conclude.

She smiles. And it's a bit twitchy, still laced with guilt and regret, but also pleased and... somehow proud in realizing that you trust her and think of her as mature enough to openly share you prison past with her. "Thanks, mama."

You smile back at her and kiss her forehead. "Don't mention it."

Reluctantly, you pull back with the intention to start cleaning up the counter from disinfectant wipes and swabs. It's when you start packing the rest of the items away in the first aid kit that your attention gets once again drawn by the movement that you catch out the corner of your eyes. You lift your gaze only to be met with the sight of your daughter still rubbing at the wrist and bruised knuckles of the hand gingerly cradled in her lap.

A thought instantly crosses your mind and... Hell, why not.

You decide that it's better if you give her the advice now that Piper isn't here yet to hear it and reprimand you for it.

"I'm in no way encouraging you to go beat someone up _ever again_," You start, cautiously, picking up the ice pack from the counter and resting it on her sore, probably lightly sprained wrist. She holds it in place and looks up at you with a curious tilt of her head. "But... if you should ever be in need of defending yourself again, try to strike with your elbow, not your hand, duckling. It's far more efficient, and a lot less painful. Well... _for you_." You amend, flashing her a smile.

She is not a fighter, which is why it has shocked you so much receiving the call from the school, but the advice has her looking at you with a bit of intrigue.

"Would you... show me?" She asks, timidly yet curiously.

You chuckle and ruffle her hair like she is eight again.

"Later," You promise, throwing her a wink as you stand, carrying the first aid kit back in the kitchen. "I'm gonna teach you how to elbow the fuuc-... _feathers_ out of your pillow."

_Phwee._

Nice safe.

Or it _would be_ if your daughter wasn't doubling over with laughters. But after the morning you both had, after the scare she has given you, hearing that joyful sound is the most blissful relief.

**. . .**

Ever the polar bear mom, Piper fusses over your cub as soon as she stumbles through the front door two hours earlier than usual despite the many, _many, thorough_ reassurances that you have delivered over two phone calls and at least a half dozen of texts, all saying that your "little/not-so-little-anymore" duckling was okay and just a bit bruised up.

As usual though, just like that time your daughter scraped her knee and shoulder riding her bike for the first time without the training wheels, she can only be assured of her well-being after seeing the damage of her busted lip for herself.

Even though you have informed her about the details that brought to the scuffle, Piper looks as guilty as you did when your daughter repeats to her the whole story.

You notice the way her throat bobs as she swallows, looking at you with that same hurt in her blue eyes that she had the night she had to watch you getting hurt without being able to do anything about it.

You reach her side and take her in your arms. She leans into the embrace and the kiss you plant on her blonde hair, holding her close until her breathing and the frantic pulse jumping at the base of her neck has slowed down to something far more acceptable.

Afterwards, you all sit down and talk.

It's not easy to summarize your past in just one evening: starting from when and how you first met, before skipping to your reunion at Litchfield and the years spent in that hellish hole. And it's even more challenging putting the necessary effort to keep a few (far too many) parts rated pg 13 for your fifteen years-old-daughter. But you still manage to cover the main points without going much into unnecessary detail. Going through heartbreaks and love affairs, betrayal, break-ups, justifiable homicide of a former colleague and friend, and... falling in love all over again.

Because, despite everything, "Something good came out from all of that." Piper states, reaching out and grabbing your hand. Your _left hand_, deliberately. She half turns to you and smiles that immensely tender smile filled with affection that promptly makes your heart do that familiar flip within your ribcage when she brushes the pad of her thumb over the titanium band of your wedding ring. "It made me realize what truly matters."

In high sight, you should probably have expected that the only way Piper would have realized such thing was to get into an extremely hazardous situation.

Still, it doesn't feel any less wonderful hearing her admit out loud and explain to your daughter that "It made me realize what I think I have always known. That I didn't want to be with anyone else in the world but your mom."

With that, Piper leans closer and pecks you on the lips. It's brief, but exceptionally soft.

And you end up smirking into it when you hear your daughter groan.

"_Ugh._ Please, get a room!"

But you can't not notice the fondness and affection that she tries to hide behind an expression of mild annoyance in front of your PDA when you pull back.

You end your anecdote on that sweet note.

_The rest_... you think, glancing down at your other hand, at the now faded scar bisecting your palm, feeling that same old (albeit dulled) twinge in your stomach at the memory the sight of it instantly elicits.

_The rest can wait a bit longer..._

**. . .**

"Mom,_ please!_"

"Nuh uh. Absolutely not."

You knew the day would have come where your cute little geeky rebel was going to beg for something like this, and her very protective mother would have answered to the somehow reasonable request with a firm, unyielding "No way."

It's... quite an amusing sight to witness. And that's probably why it has kept you from intervening with the solution that is there, sitting cozily in the back of your head.

You are probably going to be asked to join in the animated discussion pretty soon anyway. Might as well sit back and enjoy the interaction until then.

"Please," Your daughter asks again. "They are going to be in town for just one night, let me go see them!" The volume of her voice might be turned up a bit louder than usual, but she is begging, not demanding. She most certainly could. But those big, brightly warm blue-hazel eyes of hers can be exceptionally persuasive on their own if she'd decide to get that specific, wounded puppy-look on.

The thing is, she is no longer eight years old, and the fact that she isn't exploiting her greatest asset right now, only makes you realize how much she has grown up, even though Piper doesn't miss the chance to remind her, with an exaggerated groan of exasperation that,

"You are only _sixteen_, Cassandra!"

"So _what?!_"

Whoa!

That burst of fire makes you perk up a little.

Things are about to get _good_ and you regret not having taken the chance to grab a snack while you could to better savor the scene. You just shift your weight on your other foot and lean against the door frame, arms crossed over your chest, trying not to let the smirk that is already there twitching at the corner of your mouth, to take over your face when you see the way Piper's eyes first widen and then narrow, jaw snapping shut and clenching, gaining that vexed, reprimanding expression that you have learned to recognize over the years but never (luckily so) got to see (or elicit) very often.

"Mind your tone and temper, young lady."

_Ha!_

You almost choke on your own tongue in the attempt to swallow down a guffaw.

This is _far_ too precious! You should record this and then replay it back to your wife when she isn't fuming like a chimney, just to see her blush bright crimson at her own hypocrisy. She definitely wasn't an innocent little thing at that age either. And if there is one person who deserves credit for your daughter's current flare of temper, that would be _her_.

You and Piper both raised Cassandra to be as stubborn and fierce as she is (maybe even encouraged such behavior), which, paired with her own innate ardor... well... you could never expect her to be anything less. And even if this is not the best example to display those marvelous traits, you are pretty proud to see that spark lighting up in her. Even if it's only there for a moment.

Because an instant later, your daughter, far too caring and ever-respectful despite her punk-rock attitude (and that trademark Piper Chapman temper that has weaved itself into her dna) deflates guiltily at the reprimand.

"S-sorry, mom." She grumbles apologetically, arms crossed over her chest, head ducked to hide the blush of embarrassment mingled with simmering annoyance for being treated like a child.

_God..._

She still _is_.

And yet she _isn't._

She has entered that age where she is neither and both at the same time.

_A paradox._

An angsty kind of paradox.

Although, you actually have to admit that she is far less melodramatic than kids her age are.

As rational _adults_, you and Piper both know she is not ten anymore. But as _parents_, you know she is not even eighteen, even though her maturity and intelligence can be _exceptionally_ deceiving.

To further reinforce that, there is the fact that she doesn't press insistingly or... storms off indignantly to her room with a purposefully loud slam of the door, proclaiming her hate for the world and for everything and everyone in it like any other angsty teenager no doubt wouldn't hesitate to do.

Still... _Fucking adolescence hormones_, you curse.

The air, previously tense and heavy with conflict, seems to lighten up in the brief silence that follows, and that, paired with your daughter's obediently subdued state, seems to be enough for Piper to drop her fierce stance and soften her tone.

"Casey, sweetie," She says, taking a tentative step closer, encouraged to continue when your daughter doesn't retreat at the proximity. "I know how much you would enjoy to go, but... These rock concerts... they can get pretty wild. And_ dangerous_." She stresses with seriousness, reaching out and resting her hands on your daughter's slender shoulders. And _Christ_, is she really almost as tall as Piper already?

The gesture and general closeness prompt your daughter to finally look up, just in time to see the concern lying in her mother's eyes.

The stiffness lingering in her posture drains out of her spine with her next exhale, and it's here that you finally decide to join in the conversation.

"She is right, kid."

Two pairs of blue eyes - one limpid as a spring sky, the other warmer, darker, stormy, shifting into the green and gold that reminds you of a forest caught in the glow of sunset the deeper you look into them - redirect towards you as you push yourself away from the doorframe.

Piper looks at you with gratefulness and relief.

Cassandra however...

"Thanks for backing me up in this, mama." She grumbles under her breath in a way that sounds pretty much like an _"I thought that you would have at least understood"_, but the fact that she doesn't tense up again is a good sign.

You honestly can't help the little smirk that curls up on the corner of your mouth upon hearing that tone though.

Argumentative nature, temper and overall bright, geeky intelligence from Piper.

Sass, sarcasm (as well as that attractive, symmetrical bone structure that you are willing to bet has earned her the attention of a few suitors already), those traits... she has inherited them all from _you._

You really did a good job that time (both you _and_ Piper) in assembling your daughter with a combination of your best traits and making her to your own image.

"Oh, but I am, kid. Trust me." You assure her, even though she may not consider your concerns about her well-being as "backing her up". "I'm just making sure you won't end up crushed in the mosh pit." You explain.

"I-I would be careful!" Her eagerness to assure you makes her stutter, but the look in her wide eyes is earnest enough. If it only depended solely on her, though...

"And you know that I would _never_ throw myself in there!" She sounds indignant that you even took into consideration the idea. Which you didn't, as you try to explain, smiling patiently.

"I know, _but_-"

"-you could end up being thrown in there in the midst of chaos without you _wanting to_, honey," Piper concludes for you, softly, using that extremely persuasive tone of hers made entirely of motherly affection and concern.

It works.

Your daughter instantly stiffens up. Clearly not having considered that possible, hazardous outcome _at all_.

"O-_oh..._"

There.

You seize your chance when that look of disappointment contorts your daughter's features. You glance at Piper and, as expected, you see her resolution waver in front of that devastating expression and the slouched posture of defeat.

"But maybe we can discuss a compromise..." You offer, which is enough to get both your daughter's and your wife's attention.

"What kind of compromise?" They ask in unison. One voice suspicious, the other so very hopeful.

_The kind of compromise that will have both you girls content,_ you think inwardly._ Hopefully._

"It's best if your mom and I discuss it._ Privately._" You add, treading carefully, giving your daughter a look that she takes for what it is. A silent "Let me handle this, kid."

She nods and turns around, retreating to her bedroom mumbling something under her breath that distantly sounds like something along the lines of_ "how privately"_ you are going to discuss this, exactly.

"So," Piper asks, barely above a conspiratorial whisper, sneaking a glance over your shoulder once you hear the click of the door closing down the hall, just to check and make sure your daughter has actually slipped in her room and is not lingering in the hallway, eavesdropping. "What do you have in mind?"

**. . .**

She is not as easy to convince as you thought it would have been. But your argument is compelling enough to at least capture her attention.

"Would you really prefer she sneaks out of her window and go without our permission and knowledge?" You inquire. Piper wavers. "Because if she is anything like you we both know she is going to."

You can't help it.

It's far too fun, eliciting that indignant/guilty reaction in her.

"_Hey!_ I've _never_ snuck out the window or disobeyed my parent's orders!" She lies, so, so, _so_ painfully. Too much defensiveness in there to be a true statement. You just cross your arms over your chest and arch a skeptical eyebrow in response while trying not to burst out laughing. "...not to go see a concert." She amends. "Just..." And here she blushes, bright and flustered. Embarrassed. Rubbing absently at her elbow and looking _anywhere_ but at you. "Just...to kiss boys."

_Ugh._ That totally murdered the humor you were after.

You make a face at such information, but decide to spare her the whole_ "that's so disappointing" _speech, thoroughly summarizing it with an eye roll instead.

"So would you prefer she does that instead?" You, for one, really _don't_ want to think about your daughter sneaking out the window with _that_ excuse. You don't even want to imagine the possible suitors she might already have thanks to the exceptionally good genes you have passed along to her. (So much for modesty, by the way).

When your wife doesn't answer, you press on.

"Look, Pipes, we can't keep her locked up. She is a good kid, she has great, enviable grades, she doesn't have many friends, but she happens to love music as much as any teenager her age does." And as if that isn't already enough recommendation to allow her to go, "She even asked us permission with a _three weeks_ advance for god's sake!"

"Okay, all right! I get it!" Piper throws her hands up in the air and then, after another moment spent in a contemplative silence, taking in consideration this new terms you have come up with, she sighs and nods with reluctant agreement. "Fine..."

You grin and kiss away the cute little crinkle of worry that has formed there between her eyebrows.

"Just because it's okay with me though, doesn't mean she will get along with this, you know that, right?" She asks, still somehow skeptical about your idea.

"Wanna bet?" You challenge her, smirking smugly. And even though for a moment she looks like she might be tempted to test you, maybe even considering the option. Eventually though, as predicted, she drops the act and humbly shakes her head.

She knows _better_ than bet against you now. Well... most of the times.

Your smirk widens and she groans.

"Ugh. Come on," She shoves you down the hallway. "Let's go tell our punky monkey the good news."

**. . .**

"The jury's back already?"

During your... deliberation, Cassandra has found comfort (and some moral support) in her feathered roommate.

Francis sure isn't shy about receiving attention, especially if it comes with getting his snow-white feathers stroked. As long as no one ruffles them out of order, of course. God forbid.

"So?" Your daughter inquires with a quirked eyebrow from where she is sitting cross-legged on her bed, a textbook and a notepad opened in front of her, and her vain-as-a-peacock duck snuggled at her side. "Have you guys reached a verdict or...?"

"We have," Piper is the first one to speak through a sigh. She is still not so convinced about this. But she at least looks far calmer. "Now, if the defendant will please rise."

Your daughter does, tentatively so. Blue-hazel eyes flickering between the two of you with curiosity and a measure of concern behind the lenses of her reading glasses. Still, even though she is positively buzzing with hopefulness, she turns to her moral support and whispers, "Hold onto your feathers, buddy."

Francis merely quacks in response.

Since the idea was yours, and you are directly involved, you decide to be the one to deliver the news.

"We have agreed to let you go."

Strangely enough (or maybe not, considering how perceptive and smart your daughter is) you don't get promptly knocked on your ass by a hug, or assaulted by a string of "thank yous" as soon as you deliver the news.

Instead, what you get in return, is indeed the bright burst of hope brightening the blue rim in her eyes, but it doesn't seem to reach the depth of the green forest closing around her pupils. Her brow scrunches up, eyes narrowing, lips pursing in a look of mild suspicion.

"Where's the catch?"

Ah, there it is. That perfect mix of wariness and skepticism that she has inherited from you.

"No catch, sweetie," Piper sugar coats the rest of the deal with the sweetness of affection leaking from her voice like syrup. "But just so I don't have to worry about you being there alone..."

"I... will accompany you." You conclude, and...

You are not sure what kind of reaction you expected to receive, exactly.

A huge grin would have been far too hopeful.

A look of utter bafflement was more probable.

What you get is a combination of shock, followed by disbelief and, ultimately, enthusiasm, when your words properly sink in.

"Hold up... _really?!_"

And... there is actually a grin breaking through at last.

"Sorry if it's super lame and uncool or whatever for you kid to hang out with your old wom- _oof_!" She doesn't allow you to finish that sentence, flinging herself at you with enough force to knock the wind out of you and make you stumble a couple of feet backward.

"_Whoa!_ Okay, okay..." You half-wheeze, half-chuckle. For being so slim she sure is surprisingly strong. Apparently, getting in the swimming team has helped her in packing some lean muscles. "I take it you are not opposed to the idea then."

"Are you_ kidding?!_" She pulls back from the hug to flash you the most brilliant smile. Nothing but honesty shimmering among the specks of gold floating among the sea of blue in her eyes. "This is literally, like, _the coolest_ thing we could do together! No other parent would have _ever_ agreed to something like this!"

Huh. Maybe times _have_ changed...

Before you can provide a reply to that statement however, the sound of a throat clearing has the both of you turn towards the blonde standing aside with her arms crossed and an eyebrow arched somehow expectantly.

"No other parent, _uh_? Did I hear that right, Miss?"

Cassandra's grin grows even wider. Enough to display those lovely, irresistible, charming dimples on her cheeks.

She disentangles from your arms only so she can go hug and properly thank her mother as well.

"Thanks, mom. You are awesome._ Both of you_." She stresses pointedly glancing and smiling at you both.

If only her smile wasn't so radiant and earnest, you would maybe even tease her with a playful and affectionate "kiss-ass".

**. . .**

"Do you even know what you might have gotten yourself into?" Piper asks you later while you are making dinner, side by side.

"Pfft, please. Of course I do," You wave off her nonsense concerns with dismissal. "It's not been so long-" _just twenty years_, you suddenly realize, smothering a wince. "Since my last concert."

The long pause that follows and the lack of chopping prompts you to look up from where you have been stirring the rice.

"What?"

"Nothing," Piper shrugs, resuming her previous task of chopping vegetables. "I'm just not sure if you are going to be able to... _keep up_." She glances back up at you and grins, eyes bright, mischievous and... challenging.

If you were the one to make such comment, she would have gasped so indignantly to suck all the air from the kitchen and the living room, before probably fainting face-first right on the stove.

However, since indignation is not really your thing, you respond in the only way you know how.

"Wanna bet?"

This time, she doesn't back away.

As a matter of fact, her grin widens into something disturbing.

"Oh, absolutely." She purrs. "You come back home from that concert feeling perfectly fine and I'll do anything you want."

You merely blink at her. Unimpressed. "That sounds quite ordinary." You point out while a lewd smirk breaks across your face despite your intention to keep a neutral expression.

"But if you don't..." She continues as if she didn't even hear you, diverting her gaze and pretending that your sly smile didn't just make her knees wobble and elicited that lovely flush on her cheeks.

"Well?" You inquire when, after a full minute, she still hasn't come up with anything.

"You know what? I'll have to properly think about it. An occasion like this one? I must consider it _thoroughly._" She states, smugly, as if she has already won.

"So... do we have an accord?" She asks, extending her hand.

Damn.

You should know better than to make a deal with the devil._ But..._

You have never been able to back down from such a promising wager.

Or be able to resist the temptation of wiping that smug grin off her face.

That pretty much settles it.

You dry the drops of steam from your palm with the kitchen towel draped over your shoulder and shake her hand.

"You're on."

She smiles sweetly and you eye her suspiciously, challengingly.

Oh, you are going to show her.

**. . .**

Damn her.

Damn her and the hell below.

"I'm probably never going to say anything like this ever again," You tell her the night you come back home from the loudest, sweatier, most packed-with-people rock concert you have ever been to. "But you were right."

For once though, absurdly enough, Piper doesn't take the occasion to gloat in your defeat like you had prepared for.

Because while you daughter had the time of her life listening to her favorite rock band live, you might have gone completely deaf from one ear, and might have also partially dislocated your shoulder while trying to fend your little duck from pushes and shoves and elbows and whatnot that were thrown mindlessly by a dancing crowd. As much as jumping and punching the air can be called "dancing".

Trying to keep it to yourself (along with the constant ringing in your ears, the vicious pounding in your head, and general _grossness_ of strangers sweating all over each other) while you were there with your daughter is one thing. But with Piper, you don't have to mask your real state so not to worry her. You couldn't even if you tried anyway.

In fact, she saw the hinted grimace badly veiled by a strained smile as soon as you got back home.

"You kept her safe." It's what she says, more relieved than surprised. Rewarding your heroism with a kiss after she has (on your request) stopped fussing over you.

"You took a bullet for me," You needlessly remind her, shrugging your uninjured shoulder while cradling the other one. "The least I could do was take some pushes and shoves from a sweaty smelly crowd to keep our duckling from being stomped on or thrown in the circle pit."

Piper chuckles. When you join in though, there is a sharp pain that shoots from your shoulder and runs down your arm like an electric shock, that leaves you wincing and hissing. And even though you try to keep it mild, Piper still hears that groan that slips past your lips, and sees the way your features contort with pain. She grimaces in sympathy.

"Come on," She gingerly takes a hold of your uninjured arm and, just as gently, leads you towards the kitchen island, where she makes you take a seat on one of the stools there. "Let me take a look at that shoulder." She says, already helping you peeling the jacket from your very, very sore frame with extreme carefulness.

You mask the visible discomfort that comes with the movement with a playful smirk. "Any excuse is good for you to get me off my clothes, isn't it?"

Piper's reply comes with a fondly exasperated eye roll.

"As if I'd need to use any excuse at all with you." She points out, discarding your jacket on a stool before heading for the freezer to retrieve a bag of frozen peas, and then for the cabinet containing medications to retrieve some arnica ointment.

Thank god you have the weekend to rest and recover from what was probably a subluxation caused by a particularly harsh shove. For how annoying though, it actually makes you realize that (as Piper tried to warn you) you no longer have the age to keep up with the youth nowadays. Which, in all honesty, is a huge _fucking _relief.

You might be getting old, sure. But that's hardly a blow to your ego since you are still perfectly able to keep up in the activity that both you and Piper still favor best and thoroughly enjoy in many, colorful, _creative_ ways.

And when (after, under her loving and attentive care, you have properly recovered from your annoying little injury) she comes to redeem her bet's prize (which may or may not involve you handcuffed to the bedpost and your wife doing absolutely _everything_ she wants to you - _especially_ with that wicked mouth of hers) you can _hardly_ think of it as a defeat at all.

As a matter of fact, losing has never felt more... _rewarding._

**. . .**

_"So, uhm it was great... studying with you."_

You probably shouldn't be doing this.

And yet...

A chuckle. Smooth and suave.

_"It was."_

"Stop hogging the peephole, Alex!" Piper hisses from beside you, unsuccessfully trying to push you aside.

"You can have the mail slot." You mutter back, shushing her with a dismissive wave.

"We are the same height!" She argues, sputtering indignantly through a hushed whisper, to which you simply respond by flashing her a seductive smile.

"It's not for that." You tell her, unable to resist. "I just know how much you enjoy getting on your hands and knees."

The look and the outragedly offended gasp that you receive in response to that, dashed with that furious red blush is almost enough to make you burst out laughing.

"You did _not_ just-"

You are about to lose it for good upon hearing that indignant tone, when the sound of approaching steps drags your attention back to what you _strongly_ believe is about to happen outside your front door.

"Shh! They're coming." You cut her off.

Since Piper seems to have realized that you have no intention of giving up your front-row seat (and definitely not taking your suggestion about the mail slot to prove how _right_ you are about her preference in positions) she groans exaggeratedly and, instead, stomps angrily towards the window facing the street near your entrance. A much riskier approach (as she seems aware of given her tentativeness) but definitely worth the risk, given the much better view that such choice provides. You shake your head in amusement as you watch her peel aside the almost-transparent curtain to take a stealthy peek outside.

"You know, you have gotten awfully noisy." You comment.

Piper half sputters and half snorts. "Hypocrite." She accuses. "I'm just making sure she doesn't hang out with some shady individual. What's _your_ excuse, Virginia Hall?"

You smirk, feeling oddly flattered. "Just making sure my kid has good taste, of course, and-_ o-oh_..."

The rest of your comment gets promptly cut off by your own amazement when your daughter's exceptionally elusive "study-buddy" comes into view.

"_Damn_."

_She most definitely has_, you think as your smirk rides higher on one corner of your mouth._ Great, excellent taste actually._

Simultaneously, in front of the sight you are both met with, Piper groans.

"Ugh. Seriously?" She sounds exasperated. "What's with your Vause genetics being attracted to redheads?"

You glance over at her, wiggling your eyebrows. "Redheads are wild."

As expected, her eyes widen with offense, her lips part with what you have no doubt is a biting remark, but you don't let her utter a single word.

Your couch is pretty comfortable, but you would still like to avoid spending a night on it.

"But I _guess_ blondes aren't that bad either. Far more rebellious than their innocent appearance may deceivingly suggest at first." You flirt, flashing her that sly smile that you know she can never resist, and just like that, it's almost like your previous comment got forgotten, the look of disdain replaced with a lovely blush. "You're just saying it to save your ass." She scoffs, flustered.

Your smirk widens, blooming into a full grin. "Yeah, and since I know _how much_ you appreciate it-" (_and enjoy holding onto it during our... most private moments_) "-I'm also doing you a favor," You sass. "So, you're welcome."

Her face grows hot, tinging into the fierce shade of crimson showing indignation and rage. But before steam can come out from her ears and before she can whistle like a kettle and risk giving away your surreptitious observation and eavesdropping, you glance outside, hoping that it will prompt Piper to do just that and get distracted long enough to forget about your bickering, which is really all just verbal foreplay.

Apparently, she is willing to let it go, turning her attention back to the two teenagers standing on the sidewalk, just under the lit lamp post down the steps of your apartment door, and... smiling dopey at each other.

Piper aws.

You groan.

Because, ugh...

_Teenagers._

_"Oh!"_ The redhead is the first one who snaps out of it, searching for something in the messenger bag hanging from her shoulder and eventually retrieving a notebook. _"Here. Before I forget again. I meant to give these back to you."_

_"My... political science notes?"_ Your daughter inquires. The confusion tugging at her features quickly readjusting into a teasing smirk._ "You have been holding these hostage for over a week? I thought I lost them!"_

_"Yeah, I know, sorry." _The flustered redhead replies, fidgeting with the strap of her bag._ "They were, um, very clear though, and... very helpful. Thanks."_

Cassandra's smirk blooms into a full grin, even though her cheeks redden with what you are pretty sure might be the beginning of a blush._ "Sure. Anytime. I-I mean... you're welcome."_

God. Your daughter must have inherited Piper's flirting "ability": confident start that quickly turns into an awkward fumbling.

It's... somehow entertaining though. In an endearing, adorable kind of way that has you smile under that initial grimace.

Your wife, however, seems to think it differently since she aws again at the interaction. "They are _so_ cute."

And honestly, you can't object.

"_So, given the way you are so effortlessly nailing everybody's most hate class. I take it you're still pretty convinced about becoming a lawyer, aren't you?"_ The redhead asks, quirking a knowing eyebrow and what looks like a smile.

Your daughter heaves an exaggerated sigh._ "What can I say?"_ And there it is, at last, the nonchalant shrug, the attractively cocky smirk that she has learned from you._ "My moms have gotten into some troubles in the past, so... who knows, they might still need good representation one day."_

_Wha-_

You and Piper exchange an incredulous look.

Utterly speechless.

Did your daughter just...?

You can't believe it!

She is using you _to flirt_!

_Oh, the little-_

The redhead chuckles._ "Your moms are awesome."_

...huh.

Interesting.

Then, as if to provide an answer to your sudden curiosity, using a softer and far more tentative tone in front of your daughter's own look of puzzlement, she explains, _"I... read about them on some old articles I found online. I'm... really sorry for all they had been through."_ Her sincerely sympathetic wince melts quickly into a smile. _"But it's so good to know that they have gotten out okay from that situation. And I'm sure you are making them very proud."_

Hell, yes.

Piper hums and nods approvingly. "I like her."

You don't even have the chance to chuckle and make some witty remark, that the sound of your daughter's amused laugh redirects your attention to what is happening outside.

_"Wow! I'll let them know I found their number one fan! It's been a few years since then."_

And it's just then that things move forward, seemingly all of a sudden.

The redhead laughs but she doesn't miss a beat and certainly doesn't waste the opening that has just been offered.

As her chuckles subside, she takes a tentative, yet bold step forward. Getting just a bit closer.

_"I was hoping you'd introduce me as... something- someone else, actually. When- _if_ you'll introduce me."_

That charming, trademark Vause smirk adorned with one lovely dimple is back in full force.

_"Oh, yeah?"_ Your daughter asks, the flirty playfulness in her tone doing an exceptional job in hiding the light tremor of nervousness that you have caught in her voice._ "Could you... maybe give me a hint?"_

That seems to be all the redhead needed to hear. She doesn't waste time, but she still stretches those few moments that precede the obvious.

She takes a step closer.

Then another.

Slow and deliberate.

Cassandra meets her in the middle. And the confidence with which they lean onto each other space makes you realize that this is definitely _not_ the first time they have found themselves in this... particular situation.

_"I'll give you as many as you want, Casey."_

And with that, a slender hand reaches up, gently cupping your daughter's cheek and then-

You pull back from the peephole a moment before you can see their lips touch, and as soon as you realize that things may be taking a far less innocent (yet still pg 13 - hopefully so) turn.

Something odd - warm, yet heavy, like the striking reminder about how much your little girl has grown up, settles in your stomach. It's not entirely uncomfortable. But... it's there. Making its presence well-known.

"Wow. They are... _really_ going at it." Piper, however, is still shamelessly watching, and you have to physically drag her away from the window.

There is no kicking, but that doesn't mean she doesn't protest and whine.

"But _Al!_"

"Nope. We have already invaded our daughter's privacy enough for one night."

"It's _hardly_ invading her privacy when she is making out with her girlfriend on the doorsteps of_ our home_," She argues, because of course she does. God, if Cassandra is going to be as argumentative as Piper is, then she is surely going to become an even more excellent lawyer.

"Don't care." You stand your ground, unyielding. Because one of you _has_ to be the adult of the situation. Even though, you have to say, you are kind of shocked to find yourself in the part instead than Piper.

"She didn't even tell us anything about her!" That's... not entirely true. She has mentioned, many times, about this friend from school- this "study-buddy" with whom she meets up at the local library until closing hours - a liberty that you have granted her during the most intense periods of study, like this week. What she hasn't told you, is the fact that this person she is hanging out with, might be _more_ than a simple friend.

"She will tell us when she will be ready to." You reason, giving Piper a pointed look in hope that she too will finally understand.

What you get in return, however, is a pout.

"Aren't you supposed to be my co-conspirator?" She asks, and upon hearing that note of betrayal in her voice, you can't help but chuckle, leaning in to kiss that (quite adorable) scowl away before you can give into its charm.

"Not when it's _our daughter_ the one you want to conspire against." You remind her. "Now come on," You tug her further away from the entrance, past the living room, leading her towards the kitchen. "I'll make some chamomille." You offer. A suggestion that earns you a weird face.

"You hate chamomille."

"Well, we have to at least _pretend_ we were busy with _something_ when she'll finally come in." You justify, and that, thankfully, ends the discussion. _Besides..._ You inwardly add,_ she needs to chill the hell out a bit._

When your daughter does, eventually, get inside (about five and a half minutes later - which, coincidentally, is the _exact_ same time it takes for the kettle to whistle and for you to pour two cups of herbal tea - but who was counting anyway?), her face has gained this lovely tinge of pink that makes the faint sprinkle of freckles scattered across her nose and cheeks stand out like stars on a red nebula, and among the rest of the signs that give away her flustered state, she also seems to be a little out of breath.

It's the only thing that keeps you from teasing her; seeing how disheveled she already looks. But if you want her to trust you and possibly bring home this elusive "friend/study-buddy" she has been talking about a lot recently, then you'll have to lay low and not give her a reason to suspect that you might already know what's going on.

Piper, however, seems to have other ideas. Not very subtle ones either. At least that's what the huge smile that spreads across her face as soon as your daughter steps in seems to suggest.

Luckily, Cassandra is far too... _dazed_, to notice the glint of mischief lurking in her mother's piercing blue eyes.

She still jumps a foot in the air though when she gets greeted with a sugary-sweet: "There you are, honey! We were getting worried. It's almost ten! How did your study session go?"

She's not even given the chance to formulate a reply hat Piper instantly follows up her attack of questioning by adding an overly concerned "Hey, you okay there sweetheart? You look... a bit _flustered_. Did you set something accidentally on fire and ran off?"

_Ugh._

You almost facepalm yourself when she turns to genially wiggle her eyebrows at you in a way that probably means: "Fire. Readhead._ Get it?_" (dork), while hiding her smirk behind her teacup as she takes a sip.

"Uh, w-what?" Your daughter, completely taken aback (and looking just as much disoriented) seems to be about ready to faint on your entrance. Or (just to stay within Piper's metaphor) auto-combust on the spot.

Let's avoid that.

"Don't mind her, kid." You say, waving her off dismissively before shooting a glare at your wife, currently giggling in her teacup. "I keep forgetting that your mom has, and _always _had, the alcohol tolerance of a cricket, thus I should stop spiking her herbal tea with a splash of rum for flavor at night."

There.

Piper almost chokes to death on a sip of her ginger, lemon balm infusion, spraying half the content of her cup all over herself as she sputters and gasps for air.

Serves her damn right.

You ignore her and instead smile a warm reassuring smile at your daughter.

"Go get ready for bed, kiddo. School day tomorrow." You remind her.

"Um, o-okay." She nods nervously and swallows, glancing with a bit of worry at her mother, who is still coughing and trying to regain her breath. "Y-yeah, right. Well... goodnight then!"

With that, she scurries down the hallway and into her room with the same grace and speed of a startled hare. Far too eager to get out of such situation for not having at least partially _intuited_ "the danger" about what might be going on and what kind of trap her mother was trying to ambush her with.

You just hope that Piper hasn't spooked her or embarrassed her to the point that will force her to cave into her own room.

**. . .**

Unfortunately, it seems like she has.

Or at least that's what you instantly think of when, just a few days later, your daughter summons you with the cryptic (not-so-cryptic-really) wish to talk to you about "something".

She is all fidgety hands and jittery nerves and you curse your wife for (most likely) putting you in this situation and for currently not being here to help you have the kind of talk you have been desperately trying to avoid for... You sigh. For far too long...

"So, uhm..." She starts, barely getting one coherent word in before she begins to blush at the prospect of a conversation that you now have the confirmation being _exactly _about what you have been dreading.

"There is this..." You still hope though, until the very last moment, that she might just be asking you for help with a school project. Like she used too when she was eight. Like that time you built that solar system model together by using and repainting old Christmas baubles.

...feels literally like yesterday.

She has grown up so much and _so fast._

And the term (and topic) she tentatively settles for at last, proves you _exactly_ how _much_.

"This... _girl_."

Jesus... You are really starting to regret having traded the sex-talk only so you could get out of the you-are-a-woman-now talk that you were supposed to give her when she turned twelve and got her first monthly visit from that annoying aunt.

But no, you were too embarrassed to do it and so Piper did it instead. Trading you this... _honor_.

Devilish woman.

And you thought that getting out of prison and refusing a life of crime and settling for the married one meant not having to make deals anymore.

Yeah.

_Riiight_.

Oh well... at least it's a girl. You know how to handle _that_ talk.

What you couldn't have handled was-

"And there is also this boy..."

_Oh, for the love of-_

Great.

Just...

_Awesome._

There is a pang in your stomach. Something fierce enough to make you close your eyes and fight off a wince.

There are _many _things that you never thought you would ever be able to do, and that have proven you wrong over the years.

For example, you never thought you would feel awkward in having to talk about sex. _Ever_.

It's always been one of your favorite subjects. But that day, apparently, has come. Much to your and your own daughter's mortification.

The way she just approached the subject pretty much holds the same tentativeness that goes into the idiotic "can I ask you a question?" question. Purposefully so to prepare you for what might come next. Like an emergency light going off and alerting you to brace yourself for imminent impact.

Nothing is going to render that metaphorical seat-belt buckle fastening any less awkward though. Or the landing particularly smooth.

Well, at least you are not c_ompletely_ alone. Francis is right there, you notice. Spotting the duck curled up at the foot of the bed.

However, as if sensing (with his fantastic, super duck senses) what is most likely going to be an immensely, painfully awkward conversation, he stands, shakes off his feathers, leaps down the bed with a bit of wings assistance, and gracefully sashays out of the room in a way that pretty much translates into a firm, "Nope. I'm out of here."

_Domestic duck my ass,_ you think, glaring after him, his gorgeous, snow-white, fluffy feathers, and his coward retreat.

_That's a chicken over there._

You briefly wonder if you could slip out of the room just as quietly and undetected, but-

"Mama?"

You sigh, turning around and facing your fidgety, uncertain-looking daughter who, apparently, has been struggling with something big all on her own.

That maternal instinct that you thought you couldn't develop because you haven't been the one who carried her (yet another thing you have been proven terribly wrong over) kicks in with vicious force. And just like that, the need to reassure her, beats whatever trace of cowardice and uneasiness that had been battling within you but a few moments ago at the prospect of having this conversation.

You heave a sigh and take a seat on the bed, offering her what you hope is a comforting smile. "Okay," You tell her. "I'm here... if you want to talk about it."

And even just saying those words, seems to take off some weight from your little (actually not-so-little-anymore) girl. Who smiles back at you, a bit awkward, yet... relieved.

She starts from the beginning of the same old story.

Well, kind of.

Apparently, there are two suitors, but... she seems to have a certain predilection already over the two of them. At least that's what you get from the smiles and dreamy looks that you see whenever she talks about her female, alleged study-buddy-_ Lucy._

A little part of you may be inwardly cheering, but you do your best to keep to yourself your preference/opinion.

The last thing you want is to push her towards a direction when she is still feeling quite a bit uncertain about all of this.

For how awkward though, it's your duty as a concerned parent to ask the question. Yep. _That one_.

"Did you... err, I mean, did the two of you... _ah_," Fuck. You might have made it this far without feeling the urge to flee, but right now you find yourself looking everywhere but at your daughter's face, scanning the surroundings instead.

From the "beware sign" of a dopey-smiling key wearing glasses taped to her door and warning all visitors that, as the poster says, "sometimes I can be a little door-key". To her vast, personal library containing many of you and Piper's favorite. And then, at last, to Geralt; the old, red dragon plush perched there on one of the shelves, adequately sitting beside a copy of_ "History of Middle-Earth"_, as if it wasn't already clear enough - upon a first general look around her habitat - that your daughter is just the most adorable, lovable, dorky geek with a few nerdy tendencies.

The little stuffed dragon (faithful companion in endless imaginary adventures) has gained quite a few stitches over the years. He has definitely seen better days, but he still fulfills its watchful purpose.

Jesus Christ...

She wasn't even_ born _yet when you bought it.

And the memory of her wrapping her tiny arms around it the first time, and clinging onto it in her sleep for her entire childhood, feels still so _fresh_.

But it's not.

The rock band poster attached beside the closet, and the makeup items set ordinately on the corner of her desk beside a just-as-neat pile of thick textbooks, reminds you that she is not seven anymore.

Luckily, you are spared from the awkwardness of having to finish the question, although not from the one of having to hear the answer.

"We, uhm," Your daughter starts, rubbing nervously at the back of her neck and adopting your same glance-at-anything-but-the-person-you-are-speaking-to tactic. "Lucy and I, we... Did some... _stuff_." She swallows, audibly, and blushes, very visibly, too. "Just-under-the-shirt stuff though!" She hurries to reassure. "And, well... some kissing."

You really do hope that "under the shirt" also means "through the pants" though, because if not...

That is really _not_ an image you want in your head.

But for how much you would like to spend just another day with your innocent, curious little girl at the zoo, where you used to bring her one Sunday a month, carrying her around on your shoulders and reveling at the enthusiastic way she would (ironically) tell you to _hurry_ every time you approached the tropical cage containing the sloths... You sigh.

Because your daughter is _seventeen_ now.

And you, as well as Piper, know very well what kind of devastating cocktail of hormones floods the system at that specific age.

You are not delusional enough to believe she isn't doing something more than some innocent petting.

And that's why you stand, muttering a quiet "I'll be right back" before exiting the room.

Honestly, you are surprised that your daughter has paced herself this far. After all, she is carrying half of your flirty genes around...

**. . .**

"Uh, mama? Why... do you have condoms?"

It's a more than fair question the one she presents you as soon as you return and hand her over the... thing.

After the initial shock dies down, she seems to remember what she just asked. Regret contorts her features then, as a furious red blush warms her cheeks, growing hotter as it spreads further down her neck.

Still, you ignore the wince that follows as she reaches her own conclusion, and, instead (in an attempt to disperse the heaviness of the conversation) you humorously reply,

"Because your mom and I are getting old but we aren't old enough yet to not risk ending up with another little you."

Your attempt to lighten up the air works. She rolls her eyes and smiles. "Pretty sure that's _not_ how things went down _that_ time."

You shrug and smirk back at her. "Maybe I was more virile back then."

She makes a face and you laugh, until her gaze drops on the square foil packet held tentatively between her fingers.

"I'm... ah, I'm not sure I'm going to need this." She admits, extending it back towards you. "Henry is a nice guy, very good looking, too. Cute, but... maybe more in a buddy-way I like to get my geek on."

That's... actually a bit relieving since you haven't even taken a glimpse of the boy himself. However, that doesn't change the fact that "You could still need it to make a dental dam. So keep it."

She groans. Newly embarrassed. Which makes you feel kind of guilty until she makes a rather shocking confession.

"I- we haven't- I'm not..." She stutters, pauses, takes in a breath, and then, summoning the future lawyer that she is going to become, she explains herself a bit more eloquently. "I'm just... not sure if Lucy and I are ready to get into all of that, yet. It's all... a bit new."

Hearing her voice trail off as it does, seeing the way she ducks her head, shoulders sagging, curling her frame inwards... It more than you have to witness before you finally step in.

"Hey, hey..." You scoot a bit closer, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. You don't even have to tug her that she instantly leans against you. "It's okay to be nervous about it," It may have felt awkward, sure, but you surely don't want your daughter to feel even more uncertain after your conversation, or worst- feel self-conscious.

"You don't have to rush into it, or do anything you don't feel ready to do." You reassure her. "But when the moment comes, if it feels right to you... try not to overthink it either, okay?" There is a nod against your shoulder, and you take it as encouragement enough for you to continue. "People always have this great expectation regarding the first time but... It's never perfect like it gets described in some romance novels. It can be awkward and clumsy and... and it's okay." You shrug, softly clearing your throat when you realize how high your voice has gotten over that last bit. "It's normal."

"Jeez..." Your daughter scoffs sarcastically. "That sounds promising. And reassuring." But then she releases a sigh, pulls away from your half embrace to look up at you with sincere (albeit still awkward) warmth and gratefulness. "But thanks, mama."

"Don't mention it," You tell her. And then, just because you think she might use the boost... "If I were you though, I wouldn't be so nervous about feeling... _inadequate_ the first time."

She frowns, tilting her head to the side and hesitating for a moment longer before finally giving in to curiosity and inquiring with a tentative, extremely caution "...why?"

You smirk. But for how much you would like to witness the kind of reaction she would have if you decided to tell her: _"Because you used to give your mom orgasms whenever she was breastfeeding you"_. you do her a favor and just summarize your compelling, cheering encouragement into a simple "Just..._ Innate skills_. Come with good genes."

This way she just winces with mild embarrassment instead of straight-out fainting with horror like you suspect she would have if you ever chose the former, most direct, brutally unabashed approach.

With that, you stand up, and for how much a part of you would be tempted to just tell her "Good, that was fun, let's not talk about it ever again" and then run to pour yourself a glass of something strong, another, much stronger part of you feels... actually _grateful_, for the chance of having this very important, fundamental talk with your daughter, and the last thing you want now that you had it, is for her to think you don't ever want to talk to her about the subject in case she'll feel the need to again.

And so, before you leave, you end the conversation as you usually do when she comes to you with a problem or a concern. "If you need to discuss this again, I'm here kid."

It's a simple reminder.

Because she should always rely on you.

And this time, the smile that she gives you, is full and warm. The gratefulness in there bright and welcoming, no longer tainted with awkwardness or general discomfort.

"Thanks, mama."

When you exit her room (feeling light and buoyant in a way you didn't expect) you find Francis in the hallway.

He is leaning against the wall, just around the corner, in a way that (absurdly so) seems to suggest that he might have been eavesdropping on your entire conversation.

You promptly cluck at him like a chicken as soon as you spot him, and, at the very least, he has the decency of ducking (_ha!_) his head with guilt and shame before making his way back into your daughter's room.

**. . .**

Eventually, she comes to a definitive decision about who she wants to officially date and (most importantly) bring home for you to meet.

It's the same young woman with the fiery red hair the one who knocks on your door holding a single orange rose the night of their first official date.

Unfortunately so, once the pleasantries have been exchanged, and while Cassandra is finishing her preparations, you have to reclude yourself from giving the shovel talk and let Piper have the honor instead.

She can deliver it just as threateningly despite being so very assertive about it.

It's impressive, really.

No small feat to accomplish at all.

But it still doesn't have the same effect it would have if you were the one to do it and threaten your daughter's date with possibly dismembering her body and burying it little piece by little piece in the several gardens you tend to daily, if she ever dared to even _think_ about hurting your little girl in _any _way. But you are afraid that the whole "I have done it before" warning, would sound so terribly redundant. Because yeah, you actually _did it_. For real.

So you wisely step aside and leave your wife to handle the entire conversation.

She does a discrete job in delivering the message. Sure, she may not provide such a morbid, graphic description of possible, multiple, post-mortem mutilations, but perhaps her own reputation precedes her, leaving the young woman to gulp nervously and sweat bullets, even though she seems to forget entirely about the threat delivered through the sweetest, most charming, dimpled smile, in the same moment your daughter emerges from her bedroom, all dressed up and ready to go.

The redhead, in fact, all but stumbles to get on her feet and approach her, blushing furiously under the smile that gets mirrored in the same flustered manner on Cassandra's face.

Ugh.

The way they look at each other...

Just... Diabetically disgusting.

You turn your attention to the camera settings and hide your smile behind it when you snap a few pictures of them; standing side by side, glancing and smiling timidly at each other. Seeming to forget about the entire world surrounding them.

The lenses of your glasses thankfully hide the shimmer of tears pooling in your eyes.

Piper isn't so lucky though, and she ends up blaming the flash of the camera. So much for playing the part of the hardass, tough-as-a-nail parent so thoroughly and convincingly, by the way.

It's... quite amusing though.

She manages to hold back the tears until they are both out the door with the promise to return by eleven, heading off for a night at the movies followed by a stop at that artisanal ice cream place that is right on the way back home, as if they weren't a walking hyperglycemic threat on their own already.

"Our beautiful little prawn has grown into an even more beautiful young woman." Piper cries when she looks at the picture you have just taken of the happy couple, and you, upon hearing what has been the first term of endearment that you have given when you first saw the picture of that little thing curled up on itself in Piper's belly, and resembling so much a shrimp, which you didn't even know at the time was going to be your baby girl, you can't help but laugh, gathering your wife in your arms.

"She sure has." You murmur, melancholically, stroking her back and planting a kiss on her blonde hair.

"She looks so much like you." Piper comments, sniffling against your neck.

"Yeah," You agree, trying to swallow down the knot of emotions stuck in your throat once you take another glance at the picture on your phone, smiling. Content. Proud. You almost can't believe that you had been reluctant and uncertain at the idea of having her with Piper. "But she gets all of her lovable, geeky dorkiness and temperament from you." You tell her, a comment which truthfulness makes your own heart throb so beautifully.

But it's hearing Piper's wet laugh what makes it do flips and all sorts of wild, fluttery acrobatics in your chest.

They have the same laugh.

So smooth and melodic.

"We raised a wonderful girl, haven't we?" She asks, pulling away with another sniffle, looking up at you with those sparkling blue eyes overflowing with sentiment.

You smile, reaching up with one hand to wipe away those salty drops of happiness with the pad of your thumb, to reveal the proud, bright, elated smile hiding underneath their glistening beauty.

"We have." You tell her, folding a loose strand of golden hair behind her ear. "As wonderful as her mother."

And even though Piper gets what you mean, her smile wides as she, too, looks directly at you. There are crinkles now at the corners of her eyes where a few years ago there weren't. And they are so beautiful and so impossibly expressive when she returns the sentiment to you with the same earnestness and the same ever-burning affection.

"I couldn't agree more."


	10. Chapter 10

Hi there!

Whoa, I know, it's been a while, uh? As I had anticipated though, I am about to take some time off to focus on a few personal projects, still, I really wanted to get this final chapter ready for you before I got to take my break. Took me a while, I know, but as always, I wanted to be sure of how it came out before I posted it. So thank you all for having been so kind and so patient guys, truly :) And thank you for your support and all the love you have given this story, which I have been meaning to write for longer than I won't admit :P

Enjoy

* * *

Piper has started acting... a bit strangely recently.

In a secret, elusive, suspicious kind of way that sets your mind into a chaotic loop of unpleasant thoughts that twist your stomach into an even less pleasant string of knots.

It's not even the fact that during the past several weeks she has started getting home later than usual, with far more homework than you have ever seen her with. But what really stirs that foreign, uncomfortable feeling in you, what sets doubt into gear, is catching her with this curious, secret little smile that you have started to notice more often waltzing on her lips.

You have learned to read every shade of whatever emotion colors her expression, from the most subtle and delicate ones, to the most unabashed and obvious.

But this hue... it's... something entirely new in the palette. A bright, bold mingle like excitement and hope veiled with more discretion than she has ever bothered to wear before.

You have also noticed, in your careful, attentive observation, that such expression usually tends to burst to its brightest when she receives a mysterious message from an even more mysterious source and...

And you do your best to try to ignore the twinge of... something odd and unwelcoming and mostly foreign that curls itselt tightly in the pit of your stomach at the sight of it - of that secretive little smile. Or maybe it's the fact that you are not the one to elicit it what triggers such feeling, which symptoms resemble a lot the ones of indigestion.

One morning, having reached your limit, you decide to just ask her, throwing your doubt and suspicions in the openness of your breakfast table in the only way you know how, to give the illusion that you aren't being internally consumed with a sickening kind of worry that is slowly but surely smashing your insides piece by piece, destabilizing your balance; the one you have struggled to build in the past twenty years.

"So, would your secret lover be interested in a threesome or...?"

That's it.

Because what better way to approach the subject if not with a joke uttered in between a sip of coffee and a distracted nib at your (still mostly uneaten) breakfast? But you guess that that's just another one of those symptoms; the worry churning in your stomach, reaching and corrupting even your taste buds.

Everything tastes bitter and metallic lately.

Like ash and pennies.

Or maybe, more appropriately, like an old wound reopening under the gnawing of an equally ancient fear which fangs haven't lost their sharpness - or their propensity to latch on where your most vulnerable and sensitive nerve endings join together.

It requires no small amount of effort, pushing the words and that note of playfulness past the lump stuck in your throat, but you manage okay. And, apparently, the nonchalance that you fuse in such question is also convincing enough to make Piper's head promptly snap up.

Blue eyes fix with your own. Blown wide. Her lips parted. Her frame stiffened. Her face paling. Her phone, at last, discarded.

"W-what?"

And instead of finding it endearing, this time, for probably the first time ever, hearing her stutter makes that feeling that has been twisting your stomach for weeks, migrate further up in your chest, curling tight on itself. Like a spring coil ready to snap.

"I mean..." You shrug and delicately clear your throat from the unfamiliar prickling that you can't blame on the few crumbs of toast that went down the wrong way, forcing your lips to stretch into an even wider smirk that doesn't reach your eyes. "You know I'm not very picky, but as long as she is a woman and modestly attractive..."

Once again, it takes some effort to keep your gaze locked with her wide, shocked one, and keep your sly smile firmly in place, to not let it waver like your hand does, shaking with jitters as you bring your cup up to your lips. The bitterness of coffee only seems to add further discomfort to that feeling that has claimed a place for itself between your organs like an undesired guest.

It grows heavier.

A formless, bulky mass of molted lead weighing you down.

It's... simply awful.

At least until, unexpectedly, shockingly, Piper's lips stretch into a smile that slowly but surely shapes into a full, utterly delighted grin.

She beams.

It throws you so off balance that you almost do a double-take.

"Are you, by any chance, _jealous_, Mrs. Vause-Chapman?"

Seeing that teasing smile, and hearing her calling you by your married name while dropping her voice into that low, suave purr as she stands and rounds the kitchen island to reach your side, has that same old, tingly warmth spring from that place hidden deep within you.

It envelops you from the inside, smoothing out the cold, icy spikes of doubt that were starting to poke at some of your most vulnerable and tender parts.

Hell, the note of playfulness in her voice even manages to elicit what may or may not be the faint beginning of a blush warming on your cheeks. Or it could be nervousness, you reason, impatiently waiting for a proper answer to your unasked question.

You tip your head in an attempt to hide it, to regain your usual composure, and the gesture, for how discreet, gets recognized for what it is, eliciting a full, amused chuckle from your wife; the kind of sound that resonates within you, between every single ribs, a finger running through a piano keyboard, making the feeling spreading inside you even sweeter and more enveloping. Like thick, rich honey filling up the bleeding cracks of doubts that endlessly long weeks of wondering have carved within you.

You lean back on instinct when she finally approaches you, light on her steps like a feline up to some shenanigans. Your hands - which always had a mind of their own whenever she was within reach - find their place on her waist just as she sits astride your thighs with the same naturalness of always, looping her arms around your shoulders with the pretext of balance, and it's only the warmth brought by such closeness that makes you acknowledge the chill that has been tingling down your spine, now dissolving into a warm trickle.

"So, I take it that the shouts of your name the other night were just in my head then? Or I am to take offense by deducing you forgot about it?"

Oh...

Right.

_That._

"Because I sure haven't forgotten those five times in a row..." She purrs, leaning closer and tracing the shell of your ear with the tip of her nose.

You shiver.

It wasn't last night though. But like... A week ago or so... right?

Still, the memory of fingers raking down your back is so fresh that it makes a specific patch of skin between your shoulderblades sting so exquisitely. The reminder of wine and chocolate-flavored kisses gets your mouth watering. The images of her body writhing and arching beneath you as she rode the waves of pleasure you brought her sizzle in your mind with blinding clarity. And the way she then flipped you over to return the favor with an even greater amount of interests makes your own entire body shudder hotly from the inside.

Alive and electric.

How could you forget about _that_?

You took advantage of your daughter's "sleepover" at her girlfriend's and made enough noise for probably the whole neighborhood to hear your unabashed howls and shouts of pleasure. A wonderful way to celebrate the news about her memoir having been accepted by a publishing house.

The blush that has been simmering under your fair skin grows hotter and far more visible at the reminder. The itch of doubt though, shifts into something idiotic and infinitely more irritating upon realizing that you have allowed paranoia to get to you like that.

The only reason why your wife isn't scolding you about the display or what she might even dare calling "jealousy", is that she is wandering between the incredulity regarding the veiled accusation brought by your doubts, while basking in a bit of guilty pleasure bordering into absolute delight. You can't even be mad, really.

She is actually charmed and entertained (not to mention flattered) by the possibility that you, after almost _twenty years_ of marriage, have shown the very first signs of that inconvenient and utterly unattractive emotion.

The feeling of a gentle hand, so soft and unlike yours - which are now roughened by callouses earned in years of hard work - reaches up to cup your cheek, prompting you to lift your gaze.

"Al, baby..." But it's only when you hear her voice, so smooth and soothing, that you dare to glance up at her.

The amusement is but a shade lingering in the pools of blue of her eyes, the light in them dimmed by a layer of concern.

"What brought this on?"

You squirm a bit under the weight of that searching look.

"I... ah..."

Caught in between uncertainty and the resulting frustrating lack of eloquence, your gaze skids to the opposite side of the kitchen island, where she was sitting but a few moments ago, eating her breakfast, and where her phone now lays abandoned.

Piper follows the path of your fleeting eyes, and instantly remembers about your previous, humorous comment.

"You have been... spending a lot of time on your phone recently, and I just..." Your voice trails off towards the obvious and you shrug, but the nonchalance of the gesture finds too much contrast against the angered frustration that you huff out through your nose.

You have experienced it more and more often lately.

All those weird emotions that seem to spring from everywhere and nowhere at once.

All battling among each other.

Menopause has kicked in and attacked where you are most vulnerable apparently.

That bitch.

As if the hot flushes and occasional sleepless nights weren't annoying enough on their own without that vertigo of emotions fluttering wildly about you; as irritating as mosquitoes buzzing around your head.

"It's just my editor," Piper informs, smiling at you, her voice so soothing and patient. It sucks the anxiety right from your bones, leaving you feeling like a total _idiot _for even having gotten so consumed by doubt for _so long_ \- for having allowed that paranoid part of you to surface and drag you down in its lair. "We have been discussing whether it was best to sugar-coat a few parts that may result... too crude for the public."

Of course.

"I told her I already did, and she sent me back an incomprehensible string of sputtered questions."

She strokes your hair as you duck and shake your head. Pinching the bridge of your nose, inhaling deeply, silently. Embarrassed and beyond frustrated, unable to chase the feeling away on your own.

"Pipes I'm sorry... I-"

It doesn't even sting. But for how earnest, your apology doesn't go very far. In fact, before you can get the chance to explain yourself and find a way to put into words a series of feelings you don't know how to properly describe because far too intertwined by far too many others - like a mass of badly stored, tangled christmas lights - Piper disentangle her hand from your hair and cups your cheek, drawing you closer and... pressing her lips against yours.

You can't do anything else but get consumed by the softness of a kiss that tastes sweet and spicy, like ginger jam, and that ridiculously expensive matcha green tea that she has been ordering online for years and drinks religiously every morning.

So familiar and comforting.

Like slipping into the favorite, old, worn, cozy sweater on a chilly, winter night.

You draw all the comfort you can from it.

And the warmth of the sentiment that you find in that kiss, is really all it takes for the tension that was seizing your spine to get melted away.

"Don't apologize," Piper tells you when she draws back. "I know we haven't had the chance to spend much time together lately," She recognizes, with more than a drop of bitter regret in her voice. "But I promise I'm going to make it up to you."

She smiles, and since the kiss did its job in reassuring and helping you regain some of your composure back, you feel balanced and daring enough to flash her back a teasing smirk of your own.

"It almost sounds like you might have something specific in mind." You counter.

It might be the first time ever, but she does an unbelievable job in not giving absolutely anything away at your comment. She must have practiced, somehow.

"Maybe. But I'm afraid you'll have to wait a bit longer to know the details."

And even if she has managed to subdue your concerns with her previous smile and the sweetest, softest kiss that followed, when she stands and walks back to her seat, picking up her discarded phone again, you can't not notice how she avoids your gaze, or the sudden, cold detachment seeping in her previously smooth and warm voice when she offers you that cryptic answer that drops a few crumbs of suspicion. More than enough for your re-emerging paranoid self to follow that trail back towards the lair of doubt.

**. . .**

Once again it takes some effort to steer away from it, but you simply refuse to be consumed by the infinite vastness of possibilities regarding Piper's behavior and her increasing absence from home, focusing your attention and energies in your other girl instead, who might have been hyperventilating a bit over the many responses she has received from various colleges.

Boys and girls alike in fact, are _not _the only ones that have started showing a particular interest in your daughter. And even though she appears to be blind and deaf and completely unaffected in any other way from all the attention that doesn't specifically come from a certain tall and attractive redhead, she is definitely not left unaffected by the amount of responses she has received over the past couple of weeks.

Her formidable grades and swimming skills have, in fact, already captured the interest of many colleges. Letters keep coming from all over the country, each one courting her and stating with much flourish how _delighted_ they would be in having her joining their institute.

You don't think you could be more proud.

Cassandra, however, seems to be caught right in the middle of a small crisis regarding the many possible choices that are going to shape her future.

"_Ugh_, it was better when Georgetown was my one and only option!" She sounds stuck somewhere in between annoyance, frustration and a remarkable measure of thrill as she sorts without order through the stack of letters scattered on the kitchen island among books, paperwork, and empty snack wrappers. She is usually very tidy. Just... a messy, nervous eater. Same as Piper when under exceptional stress.

"How am I to decide where to go?!" And then, she sounds utterly exasperated. Deciding to shut down her laptop screen and dropping her head on top of it, releasing a groan of defeat that quickly melts into a whine.

You honestly can't help but chuckle in front of such sight.

She picks her head up and glares at you from behind her computer glasses.

"So glad that my slow, nuclear meltdown is at least a source of amusement for you, mama." She grumbles, and your smile can only stretch into a much wider grin in hearing your own sarcastic wit coming out through her.

You don't offer her a verbal answer. Just limit yourself to step around the kitchen island, setting aside some of the papers and junk lying around and wordlessly placing a cup of tea in front of her.

She eyes it somehow suspiciously, but ultimately, after a moment of hesitation, she accepts it, cautiously yet gratefully, cupping it between her hands, letting the warmth seeping through the thick porcelain mug do its job with the first sip that she takes.

You have never been a tea enthusiast. Not like Piper. But you have always found something exceptionally soothing in the valerian root's distinctive, earthy flavor. And maybe even your daughter has acquired the same sympathy with the taste over the years, since you have taken up the habit of preparing it to her during her most stressful periods.

You remember the wonders it used to work on you back during your endlessly long parole months, when everything surrounding you felt too much, as if you had been forced out of your skin and compelled to wear it in reverse, with all the nerves exposed on the outside, feeling perpetually overwhelmed by even the most subtle stimulus.

At the second, most generous sip, a great deal of the tension that was seizing her frame seems to physically melt under the rich flavor of the chestnut honey you have used to sweeten the infusion, granting it an overall stronger character.

You smile when she closes her eyes and hums a blissful, calmer sigh.

She may be able to keep her cool in the same way you do most of the times, but whenever she has a very important, crucial, life-changing choice to make, that's where Piper's influence comes in to play.

Taking advantage of her quieter appearance, you pull out a stool and take a sit at the corner, reaching out to grasp her hand in yours.

A pair of warm blue-hazel eyes flutter open, and you take comfort upon seeing how the icy panic laying in there has thawed into something warmer, worthy of the forest of green caught in that peaceful golden glow.

"Doesn't matter which college you chose," You tell her, placidly and earnest. "You'll do great, kiddo."

For how painfully cheesy, the comment, in its simplicity and pure honesty, still earns you a little twitch of lips that shapes into an embarrassed smile once she recollects some of her demeanor back.

"Thanks, mama."

Unfortunately, though, it doesn't linger.

As soon as she sets her cup down and her gaze gets once again lost among the papers scattered in a fashionable disorder on the kitchen island, her eyes regain that distant look.

"It's just..."

You recognize it immediately as it is, upon seeing the way her features contort in the moment her gaze shifts from the college letters to the intertwined black leather and silver bracelet wrapped around her wrist.

An appropriate and very tasteful six-months anniversary gift.

She traces its contourn and smiles a forlorn kind of smile that cracks something in her and wracks havoc inside you.

Damned fluttery menopause hormones.

"Have you and Lucy applied for the same colleges?" You approach the subject as delicately as you can, but despite your carefulness she still bristles a bit at the question. "I know that even with all these new possibilities you would still like to go to Georgetown..."

Luckily though, even if (despite the caution of your words and the gentleness of your tone as you phrase that statement) her mood changes, it doesn't sour as much as you were afraid it would.

"We have," There is still a lot of hesitation in there though, heavy with the implication that come with such topic. "But... If we aren't going to be accepted at the same college... If we end up at the opposite sides of the country..." She swallows, thickly, idly playing with the bracelet, twisting it around her wrist like she often does when lost in thought. "Then we have both agreed that we'll go our separate ways and... remain friends."

The way she grimaces at the word, at the idea, at the possibility, as if she had just tasted something foul... God, you know that look.

You know that feeling, too.

And what is worse than recognizing it, there is the knowledge that this is not a wound you can tend to.

You can't distract her from the sting of peroxide on a scraped knee by making her laugh with a silly voice, apply a band-aid and wipe her tears like you used to do when she was a little kid, far too curious and energetic and impatient for her own good.

There is nothing you can do here to make her feel better.

And that's probably what is so excruciating about it.

What makes your heart throb so viciously at the sight of her suffering - of a pain that goes right through you, enhanced by your current hormonal situation.

"Cassandra-"

You don't know how you can make it better, and you aren't even given the chance to try.

"No, mama." She interrupts you, shaking her head as if to dry up the tears that have started welling up in her eyes anew. The smile that she forces on her lips shouldn't be so beautiful, but it couldn't be any other way, because just like the resolve in her answer, it shows all of her maturity.

She has grown up _so much_...

"You know that this is the right thing to do." She says, straightening her back, as if you couldn't still see the weight pressing down on her slim, lanky swimmer's frame.

You don't want to tell her "yes" without sounding like a heartless asshole no matter how much compassion and understanding you would weave into your answer, but you can't tell her "no" either without sounding like a hypocrite and receiving what would most likely be a well-deserved skeptical look at the blatant lie. So you remain silent, sparing her of the "it's going to be okay" speech, and feeling as useless as a doorstop when all you can do to try and provide some resemblance of comfort is scoop her up in your arms and... hold her tight.

That crack that had formed in your chest upon seeing her so hearbroken, seems to paradoxically mend a bit and grow even larger when she buries herself into the embrace, wiping away the tears that have tracherously tumbled down her cheeks against your shirt.

"Besides," She adds when she pulls back, sniffling and looking up at you with an unexpected positivity, and an equally sincere, brave smile. "If there is one thing that I've learned from you and mom and your history, is that if we are meant to be together, then we will find each other again."

You smile back, warmly, taking the chance to cleanse the air from the tight heaviness that has been oppressing it for too long by throwing some much-needed humor and playfulness.

"As long as you avoid backstabbing, or use betrayal as a controversial way of courtship, and as long as you don't meet up again in prison, then I can't object."

Your daughter laughs.

A real, full, amused laugh.

It still catches a bit in the rough spikes of her strained and raw-with-tears voice, nonetheless, it's an immense relief hearing it.

"I'll try to avoid the backstabbing part," She chuckles. "But I can't promise anything about not meeting up in prison again." You do a double-take upon hearing that, your stomach twists, tightly into a hot spiky knot, but, luckily, your daughter is quick to explain herself (or rather remind you) before that feeling can poke holes of concern at your tender insides. "I'm going to represent criminals one day mama, remember?"

Oh, yeah.

_Right._

The knot of apprehension in your stomach doesn't loosen up one bit at the reminder though.

If anything, the spikes springing from it start scraping against some exceptionally soft and vulnerable spot located right behind your solar plexus.

"You, ah... You are still sure about that, aren't you kid?"

It's not like you don't want her to follow her dream, calling, or whatever. But as her mother, you can't not worry considering the potential dangers that could come with such profession.

Dealing with criminals...

Both you and Piper know, from experience, that it's not promising or rewarding.

But you also know better than discuss with your daughter, who happens to be as stubborn as her mother, and who has also proved over and over again that once she has her mind set on something, there is no way she can be swayed from it.

And to prove how right you are in such assessment, she nods, looking as convinced as ever.

"I am." She states, firmly, through the most persuasive smile that, on its own, in its maturity and determination, manages to soothe some of your doubts, even though a bit of guilt still emerges to take their place when she confesses to you that, "I wanted to since you and mom told me the entire story- _your_ story, when I was fifteen."

You still remember the day.

The faint little scar on her bottom lip reminds it to you all more clearly, with all the angered feelings attached.

"Your shared past in prison taught me that there are a lot of injustices in a system that is unfit to protect or even distinguish real criminals from those who just ended up in a bad situation because of circumstance, and I... I want to make sure that no one else would have to endure what you and mom, along with aunt Red and some of your friends-behind-bars, had to go through at the time."

Damn it.

She is going to be an excellent lawyer.

With just a few carefully chosen words she has made her entire argument. And if that isn't enough to convince you, hearing the resolution in her voice, the passion with which she speaks... That sizzle of guilt that you felt, stirring tight and uncomfortable in your belly at the knowledge that you had influenced her decision about what is going to be her future career - that feeling gets all but consumed by the overwhelming swell of pride that blooms hotly in your chest.

You stand up.

She blinks, mildly confused and perhaps a bit alarmed.

"Uh... mama?"

And then, you wrap your beautiful, smart, geeky, wonderful daughter in your arms.

"I'm so proud of you, duckling."

Your voice - pulled taut with emotions - shakes, threatening to break for good.

"Mama please, don't cry," She pleads as her own voice promptly thickens with the familiarity of tears. "Or I will start crying too, and you know that there is no amount of makeup that can help us mask the puffiness of our eyes."

You laugh, choosing to do the only thing you can to not surrender to those tears prickling and closing your throat.

"I'm probably going to turn your bedroom into a sex dungeon when you and Francis will be off to college."

"_Mama_!"

That does the trick.

Cassandra tears herself away from you sputtering and blushing furiously in all the several shades coloring embarrassment.

"Well, I'm sorry but it's the truth." You tell her, shrugging matter-of-factly. "I couldn't stand passing in front of your room every day and not seeing you there hunched over books or having some philosophical discussion/conspiring with your duck."

Holding back a grin has never been more challenging, but you manage, discretely.

"Might as well make good use of the space and turn it into a playroom for me and your mo-"

At that, she covers her ears and starts shouting. "Not listening! I'm not listening!"

You snort, taking back everything you thought but a few minutes ago about her regarding "maturity".

When she seems to realize that you have no intention of flustering her any further, she lowers her hands and glares at you through the electric blue reflection of her computer glasses.

"You really know how to ruin a moment, don't you?"

You gasp in offence, bringing a hand up your chest with mock hurt.

Despite the effort that you put in the charade, the overall look doesn't really work, what with the amused little smirk tugging treacherously at the corner of your lips.

"On the contrary. I believe I just made it quite unforgettable."

Her little glare melts quickly into a smile that she promptly tries to hide behind a fondly exasperated eye roll.

"And_ I_ am supposed to be the horny teenager..." She grumbles, shaking her head and making a face, shuddering at whatever image has just crossed her mind.

You might feel a bit guilty for a moment, but when your phone chimes with a new message the feeling is pushed aside.

It's a text from Piper.

And all the joyfulness of the past moments sinks in the pit of your stomach when you read that, once again, she isn't going to make it home in time to join the two of you for dinner.

Something inside you, something that had been there, floating hopefully in your chest for the entire day, surrenders to gravity and joins that heaviness knotted in your stomach upon receiving that information.

"You okay mama?"

And, apparently, you don't do a very good job in hiding your disappointment, which might be shifting into a far more consistent concern despite your intention to not alarm your daughter.

Ever since that morning that you and Piper have shared a couple of weeks ago, she has spent less and less time at home, and when she is at home she couldn't be more busy and distant.

It's probably just stress, you reason. Lots of changes going on in the school she teaches at right now. And with the whole deal going on with her publisher, her schedule got filled up real quick. Enough for you to realize that she isn't going to be able to keep the promise that she made you that morning a few weeks ago, which, you are starting to believe, she might have forgotten all about it.

There just hasn't been much time you could dedicate to yourselves at the exception of that particular night. And since you want to show your support, you haven't pressured her about it.

But... as you stare yet again at another short, impersonal text that lacks of that warmth she usually managed to convey even with just the right use of punctuation, or by adding a simple string of disjointed emojis - something... _uneasy_... that same heavy rock from before grinds against your tender insides.

"Mama?"

The feeling only gets dulled when a new (old) one springs upon hearing that note of worry in your daughter's voice.

You look up from your phone and attempt a reassuring smile. "It's just your mom. She is going to get home late."

"O-oh..." You don't miss the way her shoulders sag with disappointment at the information, or the little frown crinkling her brow and showing-

"Again?"

_Suspicion._

Your chest grows tight.

Apprehension wraps around your insides like a vise.

"It's the third time this week." She comments, and, apparently, you are not the only one who has found Piper's behavior somewhat odd during the last couple of weeks.

You are way out of practice to deal with that feeling and what brings to the surface, but you still manage to keep the disappointment thickening into an even denser suspicion to yourself. For your daughter's sake.

"We can still have a nice evening just the two of us." You point out, and luckily, the prospect seem to ease her a little. "So what you say if you put on hold... all of_ that_ and help me start making dinner, duckling?" You ask her, hoping that the distraction will aid in soothing her jittery nerves and smother whatever suspicion had started brewing in her own ever-spinning, brilliant mind, by providing a bit of entertainment to also distract her from her sentimental life, among other pressing matters. Nothing does it better than the prospect of getting into some possible kitchen shenanigans. And to prove that you are still right about such assessment, she smiles at the offer.

"Eh, why not." She appraises the discarded trail mix packets and empty energy drinks with a bit of a grimace born from a sense of guilt for giving in to her anxiety in such a destructive way. "I guess I could use something green and leafy in my diet today." She points out, patting her flat, toned stomach as if she might be worried about her figure.

"Besides, it could be one of the last few chances I get to scare our neighbors and get them to call the fire department." She jokes, grinning mischievously.

You chuckle. "To prevent that I'll handle the stove this time."

"Deal! But first, there is this test I wanted to check out..." She says, taking one more sip of her tea and flipping open her laptop, squinting her eyes when the screen lights up, rubbing tiredly at one from underneath the frame of her glasses.

You shake your head at her insufferably endearing stubbornness.

"Print it out, baby girl. You can do it after dinner. Or... tomorrow." You reconsider when she surrenders to her visible tiredness and (unsuccessfully) tries to suppress a yawn.

"...tomorrow sounds fine," She yields, and the fact that she passes up the chance to argue says everything about how exhausted she is.

She sends the command to the printer located in the office, but you stop her as soon as she pulls back the stool and stands.

"Oh no, I don't think so, Miss. _I_ will go retrieve that while _you_ clean up this mess you have made." You affectionately chastise her. "I'm pretty sure that there is marble somewhere under... all of this." And she has the decency to at least look a bit embarrassed once she takes in the current state of your previously immaculate-looking kitchen island.

Still, as you make your way towards the office and she starts collecting her stuff and reordering the space, throwing away the junk she has gathered in all day, you hear her grumbling something under her breath about the few surfaces in your kitchen having been _probably _used for something far more scandalous and unsanitary than an innocent, temporary paper-storage and waste bin.

"I heard that!" You yell back, refraining from commenting. She might suspect it, but she definitely _doesn't _need to know how right she is.

You already put enough mortifying images of you and her mother in her mind for the day (or for her whole life), you reason.

The printer is just finishing spitting out the last page when you walk into the office.

It's a small space.

Just a desk, a chair, a small library, a couple of shelves and some office supplies.

Piper is the one who uses it the most when she needs to prepare tests for her students.

More rarely, you borrow the space when you have to go through bills and expenses, all filed by year and lined just as ordinately on one of the shelves.

You approach the desk and gather the papers from the printer paper tray and- _Whoa!_ It's... quite the test.

You frown, thumbing through the thickness of what seems like at least two dozen pages.

There is no way you are letting Cassandra do this tonight and risk seeing her brain resign by leaking its way out of her ears. Which is most likely going to happen if she's going to have to-

_Let's see..._

Curiosity has you turn the pages over to see what the test is about,_ and-_

There is barely a moment; the broken second of a stuttered heartbeat where confusion reins before it all crashes down. The warm, crimson essence running through your veins turns to ice, and the muscle tucked behind your sternum and pumping such essence, is forced to a screeching halt.

The world,_ your world -_ the one you have spent two decades building, the same one you have spent so much time believing you didn't deserve and couldn't fit into - comes crashing onto you with the unforgiving force of a swinging log trap slamming right onto your chest and knocking the wind out of your lungs.

Because right there, on the top of the first page, typed in bold letters, there is not the title of one of your daughter's tests.

But rather one of your worst, oldest fears to date.

_Divorce agreement._

Pages and pages.

Empty spaces already filled up.

It's just missing your signatures.

_Piper..._ She must have compiled it on her laptop. _Printed the papers and then forgot them there in the tray,_ you reason, in a fleeting moment of merciful clarity before anguish sinks her cold, sharp claws in you and drags you back down into the depths of despair that is its lair.

The doubts that you have been having, the suspicions that you have forced yourself to believe as unfounded and that you have attributed to your own paranoia and hormonal instability, have taken a sudden tangible consistence. Thin as paper. But as clear as the black ink spelling one of your most dreaded nightmares. It seizes you in place with the most frightening realization that has your stomach churning with a sudden and overwhelming wave of nausea.

You shiver, breaking into a cold sweat that starts at the back of your neck.

Your legs buckle and it's almost as if the very same earth just collapsed under your feet like glass-thin ice.

The surface cracks open swallowing you down and leaving you drowning under a glazed layer of icy terror.

That old fear resurfaces from the pit you had buried it under, like a skeleton hand from a grave, bringing with it the vengeance of two decades spent believing that Piper, after all you have been through, after all the love you have given each other, wouldn't have done _it _again one day;_ leave you._

The fear gets soon replaced by the far more excruciating pain it causes.

It pierces your chest with the incandescence and sharpness of a white-hot, freshly forged spear.

Your hands, suddenly moist with the same cold sweat dripping down your spine, start shaking. The papers that you have been holding slip from your grasp and fall in a deaf rustle at your feet.

Your head spins dizzyingly, and the rest of your body, caught at its mercy, rocks and sways dangerously with it.

You can only assume that your heart has started beating again because of the harsh irregular thuds slamming against your chest, and the equally alarming, arrhythmic hammering in your ears. And by then, you already know that something is terribly, horribly wrong.

But at this point, you hardly care.

When you brace yourself on the desk and try to draw in some air, is just a thin resemblance of instinct. You stumble. Your legs refusing to hold you up for a second longer.

You end up with knocking down the printer and the desk lamp with you on the way down, hardly hearing the smashing of glass and plastic shattering at the impact as you fall.

That pain piercing your torso from side to side renders you unable to feel or hear anything else.

Anything_ except_-

"Mama, are you fighting with the printer again? I told you that you just need to-_ Mama!_" The fond, humorously exasperated tone in your daughter's voice turns into a loud shriek of panic in the moment she walks into the office and finds you there, laying on the floor, among papers and shards of glass, clutching helplessly at your chest, as if trying to extract that scorching spear now turned into the most unbearable weight plunged right there on your sternum and preventing you to breathe.

Cassandra rushes at your side, mindlessly crouching down on the shards of glass scattered on the floor.

They creak under her knees. Pierce her jeans. But she doesn't even seem aware of the pain as one shard cuts through her skin.

Glass.

Blood.

The searing pain and the sharp smell of doom.

It's a scene disgustingly too familiar.

For the first time though, you see it and live it from a different angle.

There are tears streaking her cheeks as she begs you, one shaky hand holding up the phone to her ear, the other fumbling and fussing all over you as if searching for a wound that despite the devastating pain it's causing, it cannot be seen.

And as realization of what is happening sinks into you like that weighted, white-hot pain cracking your chest open, leaving you gasping for air that refuses to fill your starved lungs, you finally understand why Piper has spent those few, long moments, all these years ago -before her slipping awareness lost its battle against the overwhelming pull of oblivion - looking at your face when you begged (and threatened) her into staying with you while you waited for help to arrive, hands cold and tinted crimson with the life pouring out of her. One weaker pulse after another.

You look up at your daughter through your blurring vision. Listen to her desperate, choked-up pleas to the operator on the other side of the line grow into breathless, indistinguished wheezes as your ears begin to ring.

Summoning the last bit of strength and coordination that you can muster, you reach out with your free, shaky hand and cup her face in your palm.

The pain amplifies into something devastating when a pair of desperate blue-hazel eyes overflowing with tears lock with yours.

She still looks so beautiful.

_You made her._

Scraping whatever good was left in you and with Piper's help, you managed to give life to something- _to someone_ so purely and uniquely precious.

So many times - most of which spent staring down her crib when she was just a baby - you could hardly believe it.

But you did it.

You raised a wonderful girl.

You have had the privilege - and did your very best - to guide her into adulthood, got to see her grow up into an even more amazing and compassionate, loving young woman.

You taught her what really gives values to life.

You told her you love her.

And you have made sure she knows how proud you are of her.

As the world starts fading away, the edges of your vision blurring white the deeper you get pulled down by that painful weight crushing your entire being, closing around your lungs and choking the last beats of your stuttering heart, your last thought goes to Piper.

Your only failure, your only regret - the one that you know will keep you from feeling at peace wherever you are headed - is that you haven't been able to render her as happy and make her feel as loved in your marriage as she has made you.

**. . .**

It took making deals with the devil and ending up in prison for you to start believing in hell and demons.

And you only had to turn upside-down your entire beliefs about what you wanted from your life after that nightmarish period spent behind steel walls (things like get married and have a daughter you never thought you desired so fiercely) to start believing in something good again. Heavenly good.

Still, even though you have experienced both the sizzling heat of hellfire on your own skin, and the opposite, sweet embrace of marital life, (not to mention the honor and responsibility of parenthood, which you have spent far too long believing you didn't deserve), you have never actually given much thought about... wherever everyone ends up, eventually, once... departed.

All you know, is that regaining your senses to blinding, sterile-white walls - to the revolting smell of antiseptic prickling at your nose and twisting your stomach like that same old, awful memory you have never been able to forget despite your many efforts - and to the barely distinguishable sound of muffled voices arguing, is definitely _not_ how you expected to be greeted in the afterlife.

Also, according to what now seems like poorly reliable testimonies of near-death experiences, there should be no pain... _right?_ Yet, that seems like literally _all _you can feel, in full, vivid details. Drilled deep into your bones.

You don't even try to move.

_Purgatory,_ you conclude, with all the rationality that can be expected from you in this moment.

_It must be._

Just like you genially assume that it's totally plausible that the voices you hear must be no others than the devil and god possibly listing your deeds, one by one, and arguing over whom your soul belongs to given the results of all the heinous choices you have made in your mortal life.

The answer is neither.

Just like your heart - that immortal part of yourself, your very raw, eternal essence - has always belonged to the same person who also tore it to shreds._ Again._

Far too dazed to try and properly regain consciousness on your own - least of all join in a fragmented conversation - you let whatever it is that is surrounding you to pull you out from your current hallucinatory, dream-like trance.

It almost feels like waking up from a long, long, feverish afternoon nap. Where everything feels tremendously heavy and warped by a confusion that - for how paradoxical - makes perfect sense.

_"This is all your fault!"_

Uh...

Well, it might be, you guess. But you aren't about to incriminate yourself so easily. You have learned_ something_ from your mistakes.

Also, the accusation doesn't seem to be addressed at you.

_"Sweetheart, please, it's not what you think-"_

Considering that your head feels pretty much like it had been used as a cotton storage, it's something short of miracolous that you are able to hear at all.

The distorted slur of voices slowly gains more consistency, and that last one stirs something inside you. Like the sizzle of a livewire.

_"You don't want to know what I think!"_

_"Honey, please,"_

So smooth and light and suave, but also rough, cracked by the weight of something raw. Tender.

No devil or god, then, you assume.

Just a human.

A very pained-sounding human.

_"Please, just let me expl-"_

The plea has that wire light up like a lighting, spreading through your awareness like a wildfire that has your neurons jolt in shock at the striking recognizance.

_Piper!_

But there is something in her voice. So strained with thickness. Pulled taut with hurt, and generally sounding more devastated than you ever heard it.

_"No! I don't want to hear them! I've had enough of your fucking excuses!"_

And then, even with a head stuffed with cotton drenched in confusion (fluctuating between thoughts regarding metaphysics and the rather amusing image of angels and demons playing rock paper scissors over your soul) you are also able to recognize that other voice -so very similar to your own - and the fierce, emotional temperament laced in it.

_"God! How many times in a lifetime do you intend to break her heart before you are finally going to be satisfied?!"_

It comes instinctual. Even though it does take an enormous amount of effort for you to form the words and push them past the sore dryness in your throat. But since (apparently) you haven't... _departed _or whatever... you believe that your parental obligations still stand.

Chastising-rights for bad, angered behavior and blurted swears included.

"D-don't... t-talk to y-your mother like that,_ kid._"

For an infinitely long instant, there is nothing.

Just a startled silence and a sharp, muted gasp following your scolding. But the air instantly shifts and charges with something that helps in bringing you back down on earth, just like the far more clearer sound of quickly approaching steps as you stir on what you have no doubt now being probably the most fucking uncomfortable hospital bed ever designed.

"Mama!"

"Alex!"

You are simultaneously greeted by the voices of the two people you love most.

Tentatively, bravely, you will your eyes to properly open, wincing and groaning and squinting at the bright, bright white surroundings your are met with before your vision adjusts enough for you to see the creases of consuming worry on pale skin dusted with a stripe of faded freckles, and puffy, reddened, blue-hazel eyes.

Your gaze zeroes on your daughter first.

"H-hey kiddo..." Your attempt to flash a nonchalant smirk (as if you weren't laying down on a hospital bed, with - from what you learn after a general, hurried glance down your body - wires peeking from your wrists and the collar of your gown and who knows where else, feeling as weak and tired as you suspect a newborn puppy must feel) fails miserably as your lips contort into a pained grimace in the moment you try to lift yourself up, only to be held down by two pairs of firmly gentle hands - resting respectively on your shoulders and sides - and also by that same invisible weight that you remember feeling pressing down on your sternum.

It's still there.

_The fucker._

Even though it's far less heavy and insistent now.

More like a dull, ghosty throb.

But the memory alone is enough to make you wince.

It takes a bit longer for your vision to adjust, but when it does, the first detail you catch on your daughter's distressed features, is the way her bottom lip starts trembling at your greeting - a sight that reminds you so much of whenever she got upset by something when she was but a little kid. And then - when her lips part in an attempt to speak, caught in between too many emotions, thoughts and words she doesn't know how to pronounce - she ends up bursting into a shaky, wet sob.

She crumbles at your side, letting go of the worry that was weighing on her far-too-young and slender shoulders, and allowing relief to flood her system with the tears pouring down her face.

"You scared me!" She cries against your neck, hugging you so gently (like she has never done before) as if you could break, yet clutching at the sheets wrapped around you with enough strength to turn her knuckles white and make her fists shake, and your heart - which you are starting to believe must have gone under the most intense workout of your life - jolts painfully at the sight of your daughter like this, at the desperation in her voice.

For how tremendously uncomfortable though, that feeling certainly doesn't keep you from reaching out and wrapping an arm around her, pulling her close to you.

"I-I t-_thought-_" She hiccups, and it's another twinge.

"It's okay," You tell her, as fragmented memories get reassembled by your dazed mind, quietly shushing her, wishing you had enough strength to stroke her hair.

For now, words will have to do. "It's okay. I'm here."

She cries harder.

You can only try to hold her tighter while deliberately diverting your gaze. Because your tender, bruised-up heart simply_ can't_ take in the sight of your little girl looking so devastated.

But looking away turns out being an even greater mistake when your gaze gets instinctively drawn to the other person standing several steps from your bed. Unmoving. As if hoping that the stillness would make her part of the decor in the sterile surroundings of what you have no doubt now being a hospital room.

Your wif-

_Piper._

Maybe it's the sight of her in general.

Or the sudden, striking reminder of what you have found out.

Or maybe it's seeing her like..._ this_.

You don't think you have ever seen her looking more tired, consumed raw with concern and... overwhelming guilt, like she does in this very moment.

She looks ten years older.

And like she has spent hours crying her eyes out.

Those wide, reddened, yet as-beautiful-as-always piercing blue eyes that can scrutinize your very soul.

So many are the emotions fluttering within those depths and twitching on her features, that you don't even know how you are supposed to catch them all.

She looks between you and Cassandra - who is still crying softly in relief against the crook of your neck - with a foreign kind of self-consciousness that _doesn't _and _has never _belonged to her. Even just catching a glimpse of it is obscenely disconcerting.

Her throat bobs as she swallows, and then, as if the gesture itself served as a reminder, she reaches for a cup sitting at your bedside.

You sigh in relief as soon as you see it, but she is shaking so hard that she has to hold it with both hands when she brings it to your lips, straightening the straw swaying along its side.

"Here..." She whispers, and you would be lying if you said that the thought of refusing such gesture hasn't actually crossed your mind, but... there is this look in her eyes and... and your throat is too sore and scratchy to ignore the discomfort and the most primal need of thirts.

So you drink. And the ridiculous amount of effort that it takes for you to suck a few sips (as well as the coolness of the water sliding down your throat) make you feel suddenly a bit more alive. Which... you are not entirely sure is a good thing considering all the uncertainties currently floating in the air growing less fuzzy with that dream haze, and far more dense with the clear filter of reality taking firmer consistency around you.

Unconsciousness and oblivion seemed much better in comparison.

Piper steps back as soon as you are done. Setting the cup aside, and looking at you with a hesitation that is utterly foreign and doesn't belong to her.

"A-Alex..."

She breathes your name with the kind of reverence mingled with the trepidation reserved for prayers of underserved forgiveness spoken to an invisible entity in a temple. And the fact that she uses that tone with you should be sacrilegious to any existent deity.

She has never sounded nor looked more out of place.

Shifting her weight forward as if meaning to step closer again, seeming ready to fling herself onto your arms the same exact way your daughter did, only to backtrack at the last second. The uncertainty about how you would meet such closeness showing in the unrelenting way she twists her fingers.

Her mouth opens and closes as if searching for words that she can't find or has forgotten the shape of.

Her enviable eloquence, for the first time ever,_ fails her._

She looks utterly lost. Frightened. Not knowing where she stands, least of all how she is supposed to make the first step and approach the unmentioned subject-_ the reason_ why you are here.

So you do it for her. Even if the thought alone is enough to leave you winded.

"You... want a divorce."

The statement, as well as at the little, impossibly sad, resigned smile that curls out of its own volition on your lips (because, after all, considering your bumpy past, is not something you should have been so surprised about,_ right?_) hits her with enough force to tear her out of her trance. It pierces through her hesitation and awkwardness and pinches an exposed, raw nerve.

Her face shatters into a kaleidoscope of expressions. But confusion, guilt, regret, hurt and shame... those are the most familiar shapes that stand out and repeat themselves over and over, spinning around in all their misery, and... contrasting so strongly and confusingly with the unyielding firmness and urgency held in her answer.

"No! Oh my god,_ Alex!_ No, I swear I would _never_-" Exasperation and fresh tears swell in her throat, holding her voice hostage as she finally, at last, steps closer with the same hurry of the words that have just tumbled so ungracefully past her lips.

But... Among the shock, the heartbreak and desperation in her eyes, there is _something _that pierces right past the pain in your heart and... compels you to believe her.

After all, after almost twenty years of marriage and a fragmented decade before that, you have learned to recognize whenever it is that she is lying to you or not.

And after a closer scrutiny, you can confidently say that right now... She_ isn't._

Despite your willingness to believe her though, you can't not point out that-

"I saw the papers, mom."

It takes too long to get your voice to collaborate. Cassandra beats you to it. Pulling back from your neck with a sniffle and staring at her mother with puffy red eyes and the most accusing, furious glare. "Why can't you just fucking admit it and stop with all the lies already?"

Despite the murderous look, you don't perceive as much anger and venom in her tone as before. Just an endless frustration and tiredness, the kind that usually comes from someone who has had _enough_ of being mocked so brazenly.

No matter how strongly a part of you might get moved by such display of loyalty though, this kind of behavior towards her mother - towards the woman who carried her, gave birth to her and after whom she has inherited (because fuck genetics and biology) the same temperament and awkward, so-called flirting "skills" - is not something you taught her, and definitely not an attitude you can tolerate. No matter the circumstances.

Your values stand effortlessly erect on their own even when you can't muster the necessary strength to sit up by yourself.

"That's enough, Cassandra." Rarely you had to scold her twice over the same matter when she was younger, and the fact that you are doing it now really says something about how upset she must be feeling.

Shockingly enough though, Piper is the one who dismisses your reprimand and actually condones your daughter's language.

"No... It's okay," She says, and under those fat tears you might actually even catch a smile twitching at the corner of her mouth in front of your daughter's temperament; oh so very similar to her own in all its fierceness.

"I believe I deserve the hostility and distrust. But honey, I swear..." She repeats, looking at your daughter, bare with sentiment, pressing a hand to her chest. "I_ swear _to you, it's _not_ what you think."

And something about the way she says it, about the earnestness showing so vulnerably on her worn exhausted features and cracking her voice with the tears that keep welling up in her eyes, seems to be enough to get your daughter to drop her antagonism. You can feel her, physically, unlocking her tense muscles with her next exhale.

Still, despite Piper's words of assurance, you can't allow hope to swell into your far-too-tender chest yet and impose itself into this far too thin and breakable reality, only to run in the risk of having it crash on itself.

You don't think your splintered heart could take it. Like..._ literally._

But nothing stops you from rediscovering the old _you_ with semi self-destructive tendencies of almost thirty years ago.

"Piper... Just... Tell me what is going on?" The vulnerability that seeps into such question (which is actually a plea drowned in an intoxicating blend of regret and apprehension) is enough to break that layer of frosted terror holding her hostage.

Something in between a sob and the wet bark of a humorless, bitter, self-reprimanding laugh that spells _"I messed up, bad"_ spills from her lips as she shakes her head. Then, a soft, quiet, tentative smile, heartbroken with guilt and fragmented like a shattered hope, replaces that expression.

And sure, many things have changed over the years, but... not the way she still looks at you.

Tainted with guilt as it might be right now, that fierce sentiment is still there. Burning to its fiercest even under the frozen surface on those blue lakes. It's just as alive and sparkling with as much ardor as the first time you told her you loved her, right before she confessed and returned the sentiment back to you.

Whether you want it or not, the sparks of hope flicker back to life within your chest at the first clearer glimpse you manage to get of it. Of that proud sentiment. Of that smile you were pretty much sure you would have never got to see again.

"We didn't get the chance to have a proper honeymoon."

At last, the revelation.

And even though your head gets caught in between confusion and theories and possibilities, your heart (despite its tender, bruised-up conditions) catches up much faster, and then nothing can stop that tiny spark from blazing into a roaring fire within its disarranged, rumpled chambers.

The burst of hopefulness has the wheels of your mind spin faster, filling in the blanks that she left, in the only way her guilty, tender smile allows you to interpret.

Because after twenty years of marriage, a single glance, or the subtlest quirk of lips, it's really all you need to understand. But just because you don't want to risk stumbling into another possible misunderstanding, urged by the need of reassurance, you ask.

"Y-you mean...?"

Or try to.

She still nods and smiles in confirmation without you having to even complete the question.

A tear escapes when she _finally _surrenders to the gravitational pull between your bodies and steps closer, crunching down at your side. Submitting to that necessity to erased the nonsensical gap that was starting to feel unbearable between you.

Your eyes flutter closed at the first whiff of her perfume. Bergamot, traces of sandalwood, sweat and... despair melting into the comfort that comes with the first caress of her fingertips on your cheek as she reverently traces the contours of your face. The most tender gesture that precedes the even softer brush of her lips against yours.

It's slow. Mindful of your conditions. But you don't mistake its softness and carefulness for tentativeness.

Her lips are firm and purposeful in their gentleness. Almost unrelenting. To make a point. A declaration already long announced with as much pride and acceptance. And you allow that reaffirmation stitch back together the tear that doubt and pain have left in their wake, sealing the two halves of your heart back together. Torn fiber after torn fiber. Strengthening itself just like the muscle that it is.

Briefly, as Piper recaptures your bottom lip between the welcoming, soft, moist heat of hers, you wonder if the only reason you survived this, is because your heart got the chance to strengthen itself over the years you have spent with her. One beat, one heartbreak, one joy a the time, throughout the lives you have shared in this one you have found each other in - either by blind chance or... something_ more._

Cassandra, who (intuitive as she is, is nonetheless understandably confused) has respectfully long pulled back to give you all the space you need. And the fact that - for the first time ever - she doesn't groan or make some comment about you two kissing - for what feels like a short eternity and, at the same time, the blink of an eye - suggests that she too, might have partially understood what this whole misunderstanding was about, considering your upcoming anniversary.

And to soothe any lingering doubt, there is Piper.

"Never." She breathes against your lips a moment after you part, resting her forehead against yours and affectionately nudging the side of your nose with the tip of hers, conveying with words and such a tender gesture what she has thoroughly spelled out through the long kiss you just shared.

"I would never,_ ever_ divorce you, Alex." She solemnly swears, sealing the thread of that final stitch in a way that leaves no space for doubt to seep through. "...if not to marry you all over again."

There is no preventing it. No way to control it. The way your chest swells with an overwhelming surge of relief that is almost as painful as the hot iron that you remember piercing you from side to side like a spear.

A hot tear escapes, tumbling down the corner of your eye when you blink and understanding sinks, final and definitive.

"You... wanted... to renew our vows?"

The kiss (as well as the out-loud reveal) have left you a bit winded and fuzzy.

She shakes her head, takes your hand in hers and presses her lips against each knuckle with the kind of reverence reserved for something sacred and noble. Something worthy. That very same something you have spent so much time believing you weren't... until you have found yourself with an armful of squirming, wailing baby girl and swore to be worthy.

"I wanted to give you the wedding we didn't get to have twenty years ago." She says, brushing her lips over the faded circle of your left annular.

"Piper..."

"I've been meaning to ask you for_ so long,_" She interrupts, exhaling through her nose in a way that conveys exactly how furious with herself she is right now for messing this up. "But at first we couldn't because..." Her voice trails off and you hear all that doesn't need to be recalled in the silence that follows:

Because you were still in prison and got furlough just for the wedding day at city hall, surrounded by armed guards.

Because then you had to evade and face the psychopath that was your former boss, who lured you out by kidnapping her.

Because after that whole ordeal you had to focus on your recovery, in picking up every single piece of yourself and put it back together without a manual and with only Piper functioning as your glue.

Because_ then_, you had your baby girl and put all the good that was left in you to raise her.

Because Piper got busy with her career and now with her finished, about-to-be-published memoir describing all previous points in full details...

"Because of all that happened and all we have been through." She simply summarizes for the sake of brevity, and you are definitely not about to complain or interpret it as an insulting reduction.

"But now..." She smiles as she grasp your other hand, tracing the old, ridged scar in your palm - a gesture that a long time ago would have elicited a wave of nausea and made you snatch your hand away as if you got freshly cut. Now, however, the edges of it seem to have melted right with the other lines crossing your palm; creases shaped by life, by hard work, by every-day gestures.

It is a part of you.

One that - at long last - you have accepted. Just like the choices you have made, and the consequences they brought.

"Now we are both free." Piper continues, fingers brushing ever so delicately over your long and tortuous heart-line. "We have both healed-"_ You are no longer broken,_ your mind echoes. "Our little girl has grown up," She adds, glancing and smiling with pride at your daughter who smiles back timidly from the corner where she has retreated to give you some space. "And I have dealt with all my unfinished businesses."

The relief in that statement doesn't pass unnoticed.

"I just..."

Nor does that shade of guilt though, twisting her expression in a grimace at the reminder of your current situation. The damage that she has involuntarily caused when all she had in mind was surprise you with the best, most romantic gesture.

Oh,_ the irony_.

It stings.

"I had everything planned out to the detail, I was already sorting through and arranging our stay in the possible destinations I found. The whole divorce and re-marry thing was just one of the options I wanted to present to you. Patricia suggested it to me, so I got her to send the papers over just in case, but _then_..."

Life, as usual, duties and schedules, classes, parents-teachers conferences, and editor meetings, got in the way.

Ironically enough, in her effort to spend more time with you, she ended up doing the exact opposite.

Her throat bobs, but despite her many attempts to swallow the invisible knot stuck there, a weak, strangled sob still escapes, and you are far too dazed, half expecting your heart to stutter out of rhythm again and drag you away from the two people who have given your life purpose. Luckily though, to make up for your current stunned speechlessness, and to drag Piper back from that bottomless pit of guilt before she'll drown in it, there is your daughter.

"M-mom." Cassandra in fact, who has been respectfully silent and absorbed in her own thoughts for the whole explanation, seems to have recovered surprisingly fast by the revelation. Still, when she dares to speak, her voice is so heavy with guilt and regret to make it shake.

"Mom... I-I'm so, so sorry. I didn't-" She winces, tilting her head down, utterly mortified. "Those things I said- I-_I_..." And it's exactly hearing that awful note of hurt that never should taint her voice what manages to bring Piper back into the present. Her eyes softens, smiling at her like there is nothing she needs to apologize for, and nothing that needs to be forgiven.

And when your "little" cub attempts to step forward, cautiously, hesitantly, Piper simply beckons her closer with an open arm; an invitation that your daughter takes immediately with immense relief, rounding your bed and flinging herself in the half-embrace and holding on as tight as she has been holding onto you but a few minutes ago.

_There she is,_ you think.

Your tough young woman who is still as sensible as when she was but a little girl, and whose bigger fear has always been disappointing and upsetting her mother.

All considered, not so much has changed over the years, really.

"I'm sorry." She repeats, ashamed, spitting out the remorse that has been filling her lungs.

"It's okay, sweetie," Piper assures her, shushing her gently, rubbing her back and kissing her hair like she used to when she was six and in need of comfort. The sight on its own, heartwarming as it is, makes you smile. It's weak and tired, but also tinged with a fair shade of amused. Because your little girl has grown taller than your wife, which makes the embrace a bit awkward, although in the most endearing way that renders it all the more precious.

"I was going to tell you, baby," Piper confesses, pressing the words against her temple with another kiss. "I could have certainly used some help with arranging some of the details, but I didn't want to add to your list of worries. I know you have had a lot on your mind recently, too."

Yeah, things like sorting through college responses and choose for one, all while finishing school and spend time with her girlfriend without getting too depressed about what is going to be of their blooming relationship at the end of the school year, and being her same lovable and romantic dork all the while.

So yeah... This kind of things.

Nothing a kid her age can't handle without a bit of panic to help keep the balance.

There is that knowing smile gracing Piper's lips when they part, and to which Cassandra answers by diverting her gaze and tilting her head down as if it would in any way mask the lovely tinge of pink flushing her cheeks.

"Still," She mumbles, sniffling and discretely wiping away the tears that have escaped from the corner of her eyes. "You could have at least mentioned it. I mean... You know I would have helped no matter what." She states, with enough conviction (and just a drop of annoyance for being considered unable to handle too many things at once) that, luckily, refrains Piper from arguing. Although she might be too occupied with reaching a whole new level of guilt that blends right into embarrassment.

"I know honey, but I just..." She may even turn towards you then, but she can't quite find it in her to meet your gaze for more than a second. "I wanted to surprise you, for once."

_God._ If your chest wasn't still hurting so badly, you would probably laugh your lungs out at the irony.

All you can manage instead is a weak, raspy chuckle. "Oh, if that was your intention-" You smother down a wince as you try (and finally succeed) to pull yourself up into a more comfortable, half-sitting position, somehow managing to reshape the grimace that tugs at your lips into something resembling a smirk. "I think you did,_ hon._"

And apparently, that sly smile paired with that teasingly domestic term of endearment works, too, given the groan that she huffs.

"Jesus Christ," Cassandra chimes in, sounding nothing short of exasperated herself (which, coincidentally, is when she sounds most like her mother). "Why can't you two surprise each other with something normal and a bit less hazardous for once?! Like... I don't know, flowers maybe? Or... a romantic, painfully cheesy candlelit dinner?"

You and Piper share a look. A mutual sneer. And, despite her intention to make her point, even your daughter makes a face at that "normal" bit.

She just answered her own question.

There is nothing (and there has never been anything remotely close to) conventional in yours and Piper's relationship, or in your family in general - and it couldn't have been any different considering your past and history of heartbreaks, betrayals and a love so strong and insistent that scorched anything that got in its way.

And... now that you linger on the thought actually, you realize that yes - Piper has always been the one to leave before. But it's also true that nothing has been able to keep you apart for long.

You thought you would have gotten used to the dynamics by now.

Especially considering all the times you have argued, fought, parted and so on.

But all of that was just one half of that cyclical orbit moved by a greater will; by something bonded to the universe itself.

And just like any celestial body spinning within their own orbit, you have also found your way back to each other. In alignment to the starting point, every single time. Found a way through the rough patches of dishonesty and misunderstanding without allowing those fluttering debris to force you to grind to a halt.

The smile that she gives you, and the loving way she strokes the back of your hand with her thumb, tells you that she might have just have had an epiphany very similar to your own.

Definitely not the first time your thoughts collide so strikingly after all.

"Ugh. You know what? Forget it." Cassandra mumbles dismissively, no doubt having caught and interpreted the magnitude of that shared look if not the intimate secrecy of the unspoken words in it that only you and Piper can properly decipher.

You both breathe a quiet chuckle at your daughter's exasperation. And just like that, as you gaze at each other, the world that you felt collapse on top of your chest and crush it mercilessly, lifts itself up and tilts into its axis, starting to spin back at "your-kind-of-normal" pace.

It's so consoling and _right _that, for a fleeting moment, you even reconsider your current conditions and wonder if there is a chance that you were mistaken and this may actually be the afterlife.

But you are awake and alert.

There is none of that haze of a dream distorting your senses.

The soothing circles that Piper is affectionately drawing on your hand is real and present and tangible, like the pulse of your sore, bruised-up heart thrumming against your ribs. And the fact that it's still struggling a bit to get back to its usual rhythm makes this all the more authentic.

You aren't even surprised by the timing when Piper (as if having glimpsed at the thoughts that have just crossed your mind - which, once again, isn't as absurd to believe considering the kind of telepathy that you have refined into perfection over the years) promptly asks you, quietly, tentatively, but also in a way that doesn't quite mask her lingering concern and consuming guilt, "How are you feeling baby?"

She barely manages to keep her voice from shaking, and despite her efforts, you can clearly see the nervousness and apprehension that seize her frame as she anxiously waits for your answer.

You wet your lips, folding and sucking them contemplatively in your mouth. The answer itself is easy and obvious enough. Something along the lines of "Like an elephant decided to take a nap on my chest."

So you go with it, hoping that the dash of humor that you throw in the reply will somehow help in smoothing out some of those lines of concern.

_However..._

"An elephant of what size, exactly?"

The equally humorous inquiry doesn't come from Piper, nor from Cassandra, who, just like your wife, has turned towards the entrance where the voice came from, and where a petite, round, woman is standing in the doorway.

The seemingly oversized white coat she is wrapped into, the stethoscope draped over her shoulders, and the medical folder that she is scanning over, don't leave many guesses.

She looks up from the papers and smiles a charming smile when she enters. So radiant that your eyes almost hurt like they did when you first came to.

"Glad to see you awake, Mrs. Vause-Chapman. I'm your cardiologist, Doctor Parker."

You don't even get the chance to open your mouth, least of all return the greeting, that both Piper and Cassandra (just like you were afraid they would have at the first given chance) assault the doctor with a string of anxious questions.

"How is she doing, doctor?"

"Was it a heart attack?"

"How serious was it?"

"When she will be allowed to go home?"

And so on.

Although, that last one was going to be your first.

Clearly being used to such line of questioning by now though, the doctor is hardly taken by surprise. She does look quite a bit amused though and, at the same time, touched (if the soft, yet professional smile curling on her lips is of any indication) by the amount of worry and affection that your family is displaying right now.

You have a similar reaction. Yours, however, translates into a fond eye roll.

"Let's see..." As the doctor approaches you and the digital monitors connected to your heart and god-knows-what-else given the amount of wires attached to your body and snaking out from your hospital gown, her gaze lingers a moment longer on your daughter.

"Any chance I can get you to step out of the room for a bit, young lady?" She asks, all politeness and professionalism.

Totally pointless.

Cassandra has already slipped into that "try me" attitude, which similarities with your own (like the way she tilts her head up, jutting her chin out with defiance) is more than enough to quirk your lips into a proud smirk.

It's only when you reach out and take her hand in yours that some of that tension and worry and tiredness drains from her stiff shoulders, relaxing her defensive, protective posture.

The doctor grins, easy and undestanding, as if she expected nothing else. Her dark eyes gleaming with just the right amount of amusement that can only be interpreted and described as "maternal-patience".

She must definitely have kids.

"It's okay," You say, both to the doctor and your daughter, who promptly relaxes a bit more. Piper on her part, is - absurdly enough - behaving quite nicely, possibly because she wants to be an example for Cassandra, but also because she is far too consumed with worry and clearly doesn't trust herself right now to talk without running in the risk of stumbling over words or worse; surrender to the fresh tears that are welling up in her eyes as she waits with bated breath for the doctor's assessment.

You hate that you can't do anything to assure her that, despite everything that happened, (misunderstanding leading to a freaking heart attack) you are feeling... relatively better.

"Don't tell me I didn't warn you though kid." With that final notice, the doctor dismisses your daughter and steps closer, and at least your family makes her the courtesy of stepping aside to allow her to properly examine you. "Now, let's see how you are doing."

It takes a while. And even with all the technology surrounding you, she still auscultates your heart and lungs the old fashioned way doctors have done for centuries rather than blindingly relying on the monitors of the machines attached to you and spelling your vital signs like in the grand staff of a piano sheet, tapping notes that have no melody but a promisingly semi-synchronized rhythm in between one breath and a few, lightly stumbling beats.

"All right," She starts, adjusting the stethoscope around her neck as you ease down onto the bed again, feeling pretty much exhausted after just a few minutes of sitting up. "So, since you said that you only feel an elephant instead than the whole circus, is a good sign," She quips, just a little something to ease the minutes of silence broken only by the occasional "breathe in" and "breathe out" during the examination. You appreciate it, manage even to smile a bit, Piper, however, who seems to have held her own breath and had been fidgeting restlessly for the whole time, doesn't appear to be comforted by it in the slightest.

"How is she, doctor?" She asks again, shuffling closer to your bedside, her voice still a bit raw, her tone polite yet clearly impatient and anxious, her whole demeanor shaky and poked through with far too much guilt. You wonder how has she not sunk yet...

The doctor smiles reassuringly.

"She is doing okay, all considered. But I'm not going to lie, you had a pretty close call, Mrs. Vause."

_Yeah, tell me about it,_ you think, rubbing absently at the ghosty weight on your sternum.

Piper's hand reaches out and tightens with apprehension around yours.

You squeeze it back, a bit more softly, looking up at her and trying to communicate a quiet and reassuring "I'm okay" that the rest of your body and the tiredness clinging to your bones are unable to convey convincingly at the moment.

"Nonetheless," The doctor continues, flipping through the pages of the folder in her hands. "You are expected to make a full recovery. Provided of course, you'll take it easy and don't force your physique to unnecessary stress."

All the tension that has been filling the room and pressing down on your chest in a way that didn't have anything to do with your condition, seems to dissolve with the sigh of relief that both Piper and your daughter release at the same time.

"Oh thank god..." Cassandra even breathes out a little laugh that is just a step from sounding semi-hysterical, but you know it's a way to relieve herself from the jitters that had been taking her hostage for longer than she should have allowed. Piper, instead, discretely wipes at the corner of her eye with the side of a delicate finger, drying the tear that has escaped, and jolting with a muted hiccup.

"I'm going to keep you here for observation for a couple of days," The doctor announces, checking the wires attached to your chest and fiddling with one of the monitors. "There are a few tests I would prefer to run before dismissing you- just procedure," She instantly adds when she sees Piper going rigid. "And if everything looks good and in order, I'm going to send you home with a few strict rules that you'll have to follow to the letter for the next month or so."

She is not messing around.

She may have assured you that you are going to be okay, but the seriousness in her look says everything about what could happen if you won't follow such advices.

"You are going to need to rest and take it slow, Mrs. Vause, understood? That means no work, not even little housework, and especially no kind of physical activity whatsoever for the first ten days. But we'll get further into the details in due time."

You feel a bit like a scolded child, the severe look that she holds for the entire speech almost has you shrink, and you don't even know why. It's not like you went seeking for a heart attac-

_Wait a second._

It takes a longer moment for you to catch up with it but...

You and Piper share a look, yours is far more alarmed though, while hers, for once is warning and patient, inclined to interject. Which alarms you a bit more and elicits a spike in the beeping machines attached to your chest.

"With no physical activity, you also _mean_...?"

Okay, so it's not like sex is_ all_ you have in mind, but, right now, considering all that happened, with the reassurance that Piper has provided to you by explaining the mess that got you in this particular situation, and thoroughly soothed your biggest fear of her having gotten tired of you and planning on leaving you,_ well..._

If there is a better, more satisfying, all-encompassing way to bring and receive comfort after a fight (or, in this case, a huge misunderstanding that might have cost you a couple of years) you still have to find it.

"Al, baby..."

Piper folds her lips onto her mouth to hold back an affectionate reprimand that wouldn't really land considering the glimmer of amusement that you easily catch in the blue of her eyes.

Cassandra groans from the corner of the room where she has silently retreated. "Jesus, you guys just can't think about_ anything else_, can you?" You are surprised to hear her sounding so exasperated. She should know better by now.

"Like, seriously?" She pinches the bridge of her nose. "I... I can't believe I have to listen to this."

A wide shit-eating grin splits your face in a way that would surely deceive anyone about what you just went through.

"_You_ are the one who wanted to stay,_ kid_." You point out.

"Yeah, well, I actually just realized it's time for me to be, like... anywhere else in the universe." With that notice, she excuses herself and heads out of the room in a brisk walk, leaving Piper to hide her chuckle by softly coughing in her fist at the sight of your very flustered daughter, and the doctor to smother a smirk and a comment by discreetly shifting her mouth on one side, recollecting her professional demeanor, politely clearing her throat before resuming from where she left off.

"As I was saying, I forbid you from practicing_ any_ kind of strenuous activity, and_ yes-_ since, apparently, you were about to ask, that also includes sexual ones, for at least a couple of weeks."

Your head snaps towards Piper, who looks back at you and your gaping, utterly baffled expression without bothering to smother her warm, amused chuckle this time.

"Two weeks?" You repeat, uselessly dumbstruck.

"Oh, come on now," Piper coos, smoothing back your hair with that infuriating, gorgeous smile that holds the glint of mischief. "I'm sure we'll have the chance to make up for it when you'll feel better, baby." She replies, just loudly enough to give the illusion of privacy, as if the doctor standing right on your other side hasn't heard every single word.

It sure doesn't make the promise any less appealing.

Simple as it is, almost trivial, you definitely don't scoff at the prospect. That kind of reconciliation is, in fact, another motivation that has your heartbeat race to pick up those beats you have missed along the way.

The doctor sighs patiently, taking notes, pretending to be oblivious to the way you and Piper grin flirtatiously at each other, while hiding an amused little smile of her own.

**. . .**

Despite the comfort that comes from your improving conditions, and despite the many reassurances that you have provided to her, Piper still blames herself for being the reason of getting you on a hospital bed in the first place.

(Now she knows how you felt, all these years ago).

To further reinforce such obviousness, there is the fact that she never leaves your side for the next couple of days. No matter how strongly you insist that she doesn't have to take time off work, or post-pone her meetings with her editor, or get home to get a proper night sleep on your bed instead than curled in one of the chairs in your hospital room, she is adamant about her place being there, right beside you.

You might not like the way she is sacrificing everything to keep her promise, but there is no ignoring the warm flicker that such devotion sets in your chest. The warmth radiation from it seems to fill up the few cracks caused the blow inflicted by what has turned out to be just a massive misinterpretation.

Even if seeing her looking so afraid does the exact opposite.

She seems unwilling to accept your forgiveness as soon as you offer it to her, as if she doesn't deserve it, and you swear that she actually doesn't dare to breathe, denying herself of air and proper sleep until you receive all the results and the all-clear from your cardiologist.

There is this weird and totally unjustified bundle of guilt following you out of the hospital when you get released a couple of days later.

The whole heart attack may not have depended on you, sure, but for how involuntarily...

"I guess this is going to change those big plans you have been making, uh?" You slip a little smirk into the question, far too strained with nervousness and laced with apology to look sincere.

It's a beautiful, sunny day outside, and that, at least, helps a bit with your generally somber mood, and smooths out the corners of irritation and restlessness for having been escorted outside in a wheelchair because of hospital policy.

Well, there is the nice weather, that lovely breeze that makes you savor with anticipation the approach of autumn - along with the fact that you have finally been dismissed after three days spent doing tests like a guinea pig - and... the smile that Piper gives you doesn't hurt either. A shade of guilt may still be tainting the otherwise crystal blue of her eyes, but that smile still has the power to brighten the surroundings even more than the sun does, lighting up that special place inside you with warmth. And when she bends to kiss you just as softly in placation, that's when your heart threatens to pull a stunt similar to the one that made you lose your balance last time.

This time though there is no unbearable weight pressing down on your chest. Your heart still throbs, sure, but when it flips, it catches itself midair, landing steadily in its original position like a real acrobat. No small feat, you think somehow impressed, to pull such a trick when you have literally just been wheeled out of the hospital.

But your pride is dimmed by the relief of those soft lips pressed against yours with relief and comfort, warmed by the ever-burning affection that you feared - more than anything else - had waned into something tepid.

"I honestly can't think of a more meaningful way to celebrate our anniversary than sticking to the vows we have taken." She says when she pulls back and... something in you softens at the devotion and earnestness in her voice, coating each word with the meaningfulness of a whole new promise held within the old one you have sworn to each other twenty years ago: "in sickness and in health".

She is right.

Your smile is still tilting to this side of cynical though. Because getting old hasn't smoothed out the sharp angles that define your character, your very essence.

...you wonder if she still loves that aspect of you.

You get your answer when her lips stretch into that beautiful, full, dimpled smile of hers that reaches her eyes and, with the warm, early afternoon sun, creates that unique and compelling play of ripples on the surface of those limpid blue lakes.

"Besides, who said we have to change plans by much?"

The confidence in her tone and in the edge of that smile redirect your attention.

"Uh?" You so eloquently inquire, blinking back into focus just as dumbly.

She laughs and then traps her bottom lip between her teeth in that cute way she does when she is contemplating whether to reveal her big, mysterious plans or not. And, apparently, considering how things turned out last time she didn't share something with you in order to preserve the element of surprise, this time, after a brief moment of hesitation, she doesn't delay to provide the explanation.

"I had a long conversation with your doctor earlier and... well..." She pauses, and out of the corner of your eye you catch sight of your daughter pulling the car into parking near the curb and exiting the vehicle, before the splendor of Piper's lustrous smile draws your attention back to her. "We might have reached a compromise that would be very beneficial for your recovery."

Your daughter approaches right in that moment, catching the tail of that new, cryptic information, and you know, from the megawatt smile that she flashes you and makes you squint, that she might actually already know what her mother has been plotting, most likely even helped her in putting such "plan" into motion.

**. . .**

Piper sure manages to surprise you, much to your gaping amazement and her radiating delight for managing to elicit the reaction she was clearly after.

"I can't believe Doctor Parker agreed to this..." You repeat, and if you still sound fairly stunned, slightly incredulous even for what seems like the hundredth time since your arrival a few days ago, is because you are honestly still struggling a bit to believe that you are actually here, in this...

You slow down to a halt and take a moment to let your gaze scan the vast openness of the immaculate beach surrounding you and the ocean spreading infinite at the horizon where the coast extends and curves around the funnily bent palm trees far ahead; all green among white sand, limpid, crystal clear water that turns bluer the farther you look, and a sky split into countless layers of pink and orange, mingling in a softly bright hue creating an impossibly romantic atmosphere.

A salty breeze is blown your way by the ocean, ruffling gently your hair. You breathe in and bask in the sunlight like an African penguin drying-off on a rock after a swim.

You can feel Piper's eyes on you for the entire time.

More specifically, you can feel her mildly amused, deeply pleased and affectionate smile like another source of warmth heating the side of your face not currently being brushed by the setting sun.

Your eyes flutter open and there it is. As expected. That crooked, gorgeous smile which attempt at unpracticed smugness only renders it infinitely more endearing.

A few strands of golden and silver hair whip around her face with a gentle gust of tropical wind. She runs a delicate hand through it, and you fall in love all over again at the sight of that smile growing bigger, of her eyes crinkling up, at the wrinkles that adorn her features, daring the impossible by rendering her even more beautiful and vibrant.

"Is that a protest I hear?" She asks, teasingly, using the way your beach shawl is slipping down your shoulder as an unnecessary excuse to step closer and touch you, her fingertips brushing so tantalizingly against your sun-kissed skin to adjust the silky garment around your frame. You let her, steadying your breathing and using it to pull at the reins of your heart in an attempt to contain its enthusiastic flutters, which turns out to be totally useless.

"I'm merely wondering how you mastered the persuasions skills to convince my very stern and intimidating cardiologist to bring me to a Carribean island." You answer, layering your curiosity with a nice dose of playfulness, hoping that it will mask the embarrassingly strong way your body still reacts at her proximity.

It does not.

Piper smiles the most knowing and cheeky smile, which you promptly escape, even if just temporarily, by averting your gaze and let it wander, hopping from one detail to the next around the beach surrounding you and the expanse of the ocean creasing so placidly.

It's actually almost surreal, finding yourself here, walking barefoot on the shoreline of this marvelous island, taking in the breathtaking sight of the ocean spreading wild and infinite before you, reveling at the feeling of the cool sand grains slipping between your toes just like the breeze does in your hair - all after just two and a half weeks since your little dramatic mishap.

The travel all the way here has been the part you have enjoyed the less - never been particularly fond of ships in general - but it was safer for your conditions, and even if it gave that middle-age cruise vibe... well... it wasn't so out of place, you admit, with only a bit of reluctance. After all, that's what you and Piper are now._ Old._

And getting older.

Besides, the ship made the trip somehow more glamorous and quaint. Romantic even. And not in the usual, banal, corny way.

"How did you do it?" You ask her again when you feel like you have regained enough of your usual cool exterior, meeting her gaze again and quirking one eyebrow. "She seemed intransigent about home-rest."

You are as amazed as you are curious (and a bit suspicious regarding her methods) about how your wife managed to make this... wonderful arrangement happen.

"For the first ten days," She reminds you. "She actually thought it was an excellent idea when I first mentioned the possibility to her, but she still wanted to make sure your conditions were stable enough to go through the journey without jeopardizing your conditions, so once your latest results came back, and you didn't show any concerning symptoms during the first week after being released, she gave me official permission. As long as we stayed in an area that could provide immediate and adequate medical assistance in..." The enthusiasm in her voice dims as the conversation shifts towards far more gloomy and unwelcomed thoughts. She swallows. Thickly.

"In case of emergency." She concludes, and even if her words are whispered so softly to almost be blown away by the wind, nothing can mask the grave concern that has suddenly engulfed and darkened her features.

This time, she is the one who slows down to a stop. The breeze making the beach wrap hanging around her frame flutter, offers the only source of movement in the otherwise still moment. It just feels slightly crisp against the pleasantly warm heat of the tropic, but Piper still shivers, bringing her arms up to shield herself from something you instantly realize doesn't have anything to do with the chill brought by the ocean breeze.

You step closer to her side and reach out with your hand.

At the touch, at the warmth that seeps through it, she turns towards you blinking out from somewhere distant and dark. Someplace lonely, where no even breathing has a purpose. Like you imagine a world without her or your daughter would be.

"You really scared me, you know?" She asks, and even though she is not trying to stir guilt in you by voicing the fear that got very close to being a tangible reality, you still feel that pang in your stomach.

There are no tears, but under the whoosh of the wind, and the suave slosh of the waves lapping at the shore, her voice is thick with their unmistakable presence.

There is a bench facing the ocean nearby, elevated by a rock, that is pretty handy right now. You wordlessly lead Piper towards it and she doesn't object when you gently urge her to sit.

"When Cassandra called me, crying," She swallows again, seeming unable to get rid of that bulky presence lodged in her throat. "When she told me what happened... I... I couldn't_ breathe_." And just like that, her breath promptly catches in her lungs at the memory, and those heavy emotions that have been tightening in her throat rise the rest of the way up to her eyes. "I t-thought that..."

They glisten. And considering the heartbreak and devastation in that expression, the excruciating pain elicited by that thought- that fear that she doesn't bring herself to voice outloud, she shouldn't look so beautiful. In a moment like this it's truly unfair. And utterly conflicting.

But with the orange glow of the sun melting the icy terror frozen in those depths, and the fact that you are actually here, right now, sharing and living this moment with her... It couldn't be any less wonderful.

"I know." You answer, squeezing her hand. _"Now you know what I felt that night."_ It's what you don't say, because Piper already knows, and she doesn't need that reminder to add to the pile. The air has already shifted way more than you didn't want it to. And that's why you take it up personally to direct it back to the pleasant lightness and carefreeness that you have been enjoying during your romantic hand-in-hand shoreline stroll.

You don't tell her that you are sorry, because it didn't depend on you. And you definitely don't allow her to apologize either.

Instead, you make her a new proposition.

"What about we - without unnecessary ceremonies - add a new promise to our vows and swear to do our best to never again scare each other in such an overly dramatic way?"

It's pretty similar to the half-grouchy remark that Cassandra made that day in the hospital. Your smile stretches a bit wider at the thought of your daughter. She would have loved this place. Although you have no doubt she is enjoying having the house for herself and her girlfriend, to spend some quality time together before they both depart for different colleges.

You get stirred from your thoughts, when your so-called proposition succeeds in eliciting the reaction you were after.

Much to your delight - which spreads the sweetest tingling warm in your chest - Piper laughs. It comes out like a wet bark that melts into something infinitely relieving and joyous.

_Healing._

The tingling spreads down your limbs, reaching your fingertips and tickling your toes.

The sight of her laughing, head tilted back, that sweet sound exploding from her chest, has your smile bloom into an ear-to-ear grin.

You don't even try to will your heart to contain its enthusiasm this time.

"Deal," She agrees when her laughter has subdued to a softer, fading chuckle. She runs her thumb over your ring, and then she sighs, exhaling a long, relieving breath, looking around with the same awe you did when you first saw the place she had chosen to bring you to.

"God... I can't believe it took us _twenty years_ to go on our honeymoon."

You hum thoughtfully.

"I'll admit it's nothing like I have imagined it- I mean," You pause, placatingly, and rephrase when she glances at you with that cute, mildly offended little glare. "I always thought that there was going to be less_ walking_ and more... indoors activity involved, specifically more_ in-bed_ activities." Maybe it's the low, seductive purr that you deliberately weave in your voice with each word, or the single, suggestive wiggle that you do with your eyebrows. Most likely it's a combination of both that has Piper snort, her previous offense all but forgotten at your flirtatious attempts.

"Well, the vacation is not over yet, is it?" She flirts right back, trailing her fingers up your forearm in a way that shouldn't be so damn distracting and titillating. "And your breathing has gotten so much better these past few days." She points out, pleased, but most of all, relieved when she glances once again at the super-advanced piece of tech wrapped around your wrist and displaying your heartrate and breathing frequence.

"You are right, on both fronts," You agree, though deciding to save the flirting for later, when you'll be somewhere less public and when your lips and teeth will be nibbling at that weak spot behind her ear that never had her say no to you whenever you exploited it.

"In fact," You continue, switching back to your playfulness. "If I'm not mistaken, according to how things are supposed to go in this specific situation, this should also be the part where you try to convince me to have a baby."

Piper smirks fondly, matching the note of teasing found in your own tone. "Since both our uterus have officially retired and most likely picked up on knitting on a rocking chair, I think I would settle for a puppy this time."

Huh...

The thought isn't half bad actually.

"What breed?" You ask, already contemplating a few, furry, fluffy (preferably not-too-slobbering or excessively haired) options of your own.

Piper hums just as pensively, shifting closer to you and seeking warmth against your side when a fresh gust of wind is blowing your way from the ocean.

"I was thinking an Australian shepherd maybe, or a beagle."

You nod approvingly. "Mhm, nice," But as you consider more possibilities... "What about a cat?"

Piper wrinkles her nose and pulls a curious expression that you would interpret as reluctance or distaste, if it wasn't for that unmistakable shimmer of amusement rendered all the more visible by the reflection cast by the setting sun.

"What?" You aks promptingly. "Too stereotypical?"

And then she chuckles. Light and soothing. A laugh that tumbles out of her like the waves rolling sinuously along the shore. She reaches out with her other hand and slips it into yours, stroking your knuckles with the pad of her thumb.

"It's not that," She assures, grinning dazzlingly. And you just know what she is going to say in the moment you catch the way she bites down on her bottom and notice just as easily the now intensified glint of playfulness and mischief rippling in the blue of her eyes in the moment she tilts her head up. "It's just that I don't want another pussy purring and rubbing herself all over you."

The laugh that booms out of your lungs is just as full and brimming with humor as if a part of you weren't expecting that same exact seductive comment in response. There is just something in the way she says it though that sparks that same old flame of adoration at the display of her dorkiness.

Hearing you laugh makes her eyes, so blue and limpid, like the crystal water surrounding this fabulous island, crinkle. Her features creasing with the lines of a life of smiles and laughs; little wrinkles that make her expressions all the more intense and earnest.

She is aging_ beautifully._

When the humor subsides, layering in that comforting, stretched silence, even that smile softens, getting replaced by that impossibly tender and adoring look that prepares you for when she leans in to press her lips against yours.

Her kiss tastes the same it did ten- twenty- almost_ thirty years_ ago.

The same deceptively innocence pressure that gets promptly erased by that same enthusiastic searching nature that has her deepen it a bit more, allowing you to taste that sweetness that is uniquely hers.

It grows and escalates enough that afterward, you are both left panting softly and smiling and giggling, cheeks flushed, like a couple of idiotic teenagers.

"How's the ticker?" Piper is the first one to speak, her breath warm and heady, her skin tinged the most lovely and flattering shade of pink that compliments even more the exquisite tan she has earned in just a couple of days spent sunbathing. Her hand, which was previously cupping your jaw, and had slid down your neck, traced your collarbone during your unexpectedly heated kiss, is now resting right where your heart is thrumming the same old waltz against the cage barely holding its enthusiasm contained.

There is no doubt, judging by the knowing, pleased and relieved smile that curls gently on her lips, that she knows the answer already, can feel it being spelled loudly under her own hand like the frantic tapping of an old, yet functioning telegraph.

"Trotting like a horse." You reply, becoming aware of the dryness in your throat when the words come out in a husk, and even though you were going for humorous, the answer is actually fairly accurate.

She laughs again. So warm and bright, like the reflection of the sunset creasing on the water and making her skin glow something beautiful. Breathtaking. Almost..._ ethereal._

If she wasn't currently touching you, you would maybe wonder if she- if any of this - is even real.

Your heart tries a little flip at the sight, and even manages to land in its original position without getting all tangled up on the strings holding it in place. When her laughter subsides and she looks at you from underneath her lashes, you catch the glimmer of something far more mischievous in her eyes.

"Well, we took a far much longer walk than anticipated, and we just sat down,-"_ Not even on your request,_ is left unspoken, but you don't want to risk and sour the mood by reminding her the reason why you stopped in the first place. You got enough of that at home, during the previous couple of weeks after your release from the hospital.

"So..." Her voice drops into that seductive tone that redirects your thoughts and makes you shiver in all the right places, in a way that the lively, salty breeze coming from the sea hasn't managed to do. "I think you might be getting some of your stamina back,_ stud_."

You have no control over the smirk that spreads, slow and delighted (with just the right amount of cockiness) across your face, at the implication that comes with that comment- with that sly look you know_ so well_.

"Oh, you think so, don't you,_ Doctor Chapman?_"

She hums, nods, and inches closer, leaning in once more to press another gentle peck on the corner of your mouth. Teasing and feather-light. Purposefully off-centered to leave you craving for more.

_So much more..._

She pulls back with an insufferably endearing, crooked smirk of her own, standing up and offering her hand. You take it. Lacing your fingers together and picking back up your sandals as you resume your walk where you left it off.

"So..." She begins, nonchalantly (which is suspicious enough) - she _clearly _has _something _in mind. You can read it in her nervous shuffle and the subtle (yet still noticeable) smile of anticipation that she keeps trying to school and fold back in her mouth to no avail.

"_So..._?" You have to prompt her when, after a full minute, she still hasn't said anything. Her gaze far away, thoughts like flotsam wandering in the ocean spread seemingly infinite and eternal before you.

"I was thinking..." She resumes. "What do you say if we head back to our bungalow, freshen up a bit, and spend a quiet evening in? I'll prepare some soup with those strange-looking vegetables we got this morning-" Your lips part, ready to protest (or release a groan) but Piper doesn't let you, promptly stepping in with that adoring little smile that is utterly coercing in the most unfair way. "I'll even add those new spices we picked at the market, and I promise, you will _barely _notice that it doesn't have any salt in it. " She even taps her hand against your chest to make her point.

Your post-heart-attack diet, to be honest, leaves much to be desired, but... Piper has not only taken it upon herself to take excellent care of you, remind you to take your medicine and feed you as healthy as possible, but she has actually put the effort to make her dishes as tasty as a low-sodium, low-fat diet allows.

Which is... quite the accomplishment, really.

You sigh, swallowing your surly protest, which melts into a warm mass of gratitude.

"And then, I'll measure your blood pressure," She continues, and you are starting to suspect that she might enjoy eliciting that disgruntled look on your face, which, you guess she might have also interpreted as fond exasperation. "And if the numbers are all as good as yesterday or maybe even better, we could... try to turn that trot you were talking about into a bit of a gallop with a slightly more _vigorous _activity."

That definitely catches all of your attention.

It's been long enough.

And you are recovering pretty well.

Enough to be able to walk for an hour and do a flight of stairs without feeling winded.

Your pretended annoyance morphs into a smile that stretches like the long shadows cast by the sun, which looks to be about ready to dip, timidly, tiredly, under the sea for the night.

"Oh, honey," You coo, sugary sweet, batting your eyelids for good measure, trying not to give away your excitement at such an exquisite prospect. "Is this your way of telling me that you want to ride me like a wild mustang?"

Because oh... That sounds like a solid (and rather promising) plan indeed.

She almost chokes on thin air in her struggle not to burst out laughing. A battle that she loses when a grin still breaks through at the image you just put in her mind despite her intention to maintain a neutral expression.

"Actually, I was thinking more like a fairy unicorn, to be honest."

Contrary to her approach, you don't put yourself through the senseless endeavor of trying to hold back the wave of laughter that such comment elicits.

You have never planned your... intimacy sessions before.

Well... That's not entirely true, actually. You_ used to,_ when some preparations were necessary in order to enjoy your encounter (and the kinks and fantasies it involved) more safely and thoroughly. But... As in_ now_, you don't mind a bit of planning. If anything, hearing the promise in her tone, that note of desire laced with quivering anticipation, is like setting a tuft of hay near a glowing ember; bound to catch fire with the faintest puff of air.

"If that is some kind of allusion to double penetration-" As you strongly suspect it might be, especially considering the way she sucks in a sharp breath, the way she shudders and her eyes widen and darken at the blatant mentioning. God... it just makes it so much more difficult reminding her that, "Then I'm afraid we don't have the necessary... _equipment_ to satisfy such fantasy." (You barely,_ barely_ refrain from throwing in a quip about saddles and riding crops, just to stay within the horses' metaphor).

Oddly enough though, Piper's excited smile doesn't falter in the slightest at the reminder.

"Actually, the unicorn thing was intended as a "more unique than rare" kind of comparison," She informs, and hell, your eyes may even roll on their own volition at the cheesiness of the compliments, but your faintly flushed cheeks betray how you really feel about it.

"But since you brought it up," She resumes. "I was thinking that since you are still technically recovering, we should take it slow. Like... really_ slow_," She emphasizes, pouring every drop of seduction into the suggestion, her tone so thick and mellow.

It drips like molasses. Leisurely. Almost sluggish and so alluring.

You find parts of yourself getting stuck in its compelling rich texture. And she is _definitely _not oblivious to the effect her carefully crafted tone is having on you, if the way the corners of her mouth twitch with the effort to hold back a grin is anything to go by.

"And if the pace will start to escalate after a while..." She pauses, biting at the inner corner of her bottom lip, blushing so prettily. "Well... we have proven that we can both be very creative even without our usual stash at disposal."

Whatever it is that she clearly has planned for you may not be kinky, but even the simplest scenario already has your mind running a mile a minute. A surge of hot thoughts that make the rest of your body sizzle with anticipation to the full, roaring fire that will most likely spring over dinner in between seductive glances and lewd innuendos regarding_ eating_..._ soup._

In all honesty, while two decades ago you would have maybe sneered a bit at the prospect, now you can't think of a better way to conclude the day.

Long, hand-in-hand strolls, bare feet on the shoreline, soup for dinner...

Some details are new but... it still rings a bell.

A distant whisper from the past.

It's a promise echoing in this present- in this life you never thought you could have and that back then seemed close to impossible to hope for.

Steel bars and gray cement walls (along with your consuming guilt and sense of unworthiness) made any hopeful projection about the future and what it could have held, too difficult to picture, and when you succumbed to your imagination, it was too painful. Unbearable.

You don't think you would have ever believed things would have turned out this way if you had decided to indulge in that thought during those long, lonely nights spent in a mold-smelling box. Too afraid to taint whatever good you would have imagined with the awfulness surrounding you day after day. So, you simply didn't.

And now... here you are.

Against all odds.

"Hey," That gentle whisper and the pressure of a pleasantly cool hand squeezing yours redirect your attention to the present, to this moment, without completely detaching you from those memories though. "You okay, baby?"

You blink back into focus, getting greeted by a unique kind of concern blended with a dash of what you can only describe as primal understanding; something that is visible through that unnecessary question, slipped just out of habit.

"Yeah..."

For how sincere your answer is though, you are still far too distant, and your smile too faint to properly convey assurance, and Piper notices it instantly. She appreases you for a moment, two, recognizing the foggy look in your eyes, the creases of deep thought on your forehead.

"Where did you just go?" She asks then, with that knowingly tilt in her voice and a mildly concerned gaze that tells you she might have already guessed the places your wandering thoughts have been flying over.

It's enough to curl a smile on your lips, far more visible and present.

"Remember that talk we had on your bunk?"

It's wildly unspecific, to say the least. But she still angles her head to the side and starts digging in her memory. And somehow, even though she constantly forgets to put her phone to charge at night and take her magnesium pills unless you remind her to, she manages to remember the exact occasion you were referring to when you simply refer to it as "the one we had that morning a couple of days before the riot?"

There are probably a handful of memories regarding that part of your past that would elicit a smile and this... this is one of those rare ones.

You can still remember how you felt that morning.

How it was feeling that unbearably crushing worry slowly leave your body and melt into acceptance, for what you had done, strengthening into the same hope that - as Piper was trying to assure you of - everything was going to be okay.

And it wasn't just emotional exhaustion caused by a sleepless night hunted by regret what made you so willing to believe her, but rather the conviction of that distant little smile dancing on her lips as she listed off bits of domesticity that your hypothetical future after prison could hold.

"I gave you my answer," You remind her, "But you never gave me yours."

_Was it worth it?_

_Would you still go back and do it all over again? Knowing what we went through afterward? All the pain, the kidnappings, the danger, the heartbreaks of yet another forced separation?_ Years of therapy and nightmares and a clinging sense of unworthiness that never really got away...

But parallel to those events, there is also the blissfulness of domestic life, the unexpected joy that motherhood has brought you, the pride that makes your heart soar and beat stronger at the thought of having raised your baby girl into a wonderful, smart, compassionate, affectionate and sweet young woman.

Piper comes to a stop. She turns and looks at you, smiling with patience and that same infinite tenderness that once again doesn't fail to elicit an extra beat in your chest, which picks up a new pace altogether when she reaches out to stroke back your wind-tossed hair; once a proud black mane now adorned with stripes of silver. Pretty much like her own golden strands.

Her hand lingers. Delicate fingertips trace the contour of your face with veneration. Her smile grows even more earnest and loving when she brushes the few wrinkles carved high on your cheekbone, near the corner of your eyes, with the pad of her thumb.

Age has, among other things, reduced her height. Just that couple of inches that compels her to get a bit on her tiptoes whenever she wants to kiss you. The flutter of your heart echoes right within your veins when you see her doing just that, lips already parting with a shuddering breath of anticipation and meeting her with restrained eagerness, to savor that moment a bit further, before she leans in.

It's brief. And chaste.

And yet it seems to last long enough to leave you a bit giddy, with a familiar, rich, liquid warmth pooling in your belly like luscious buckwheat honey.

"Would you have still done it all?" You ask, just this side of dizzyingly breathless and just as helplessly in love as thirty years ago.

You can feel the smile shaping on your wife's lips even before she pulls back completely to face you.

And there it is.

As radiant as ever.

She brings your hand to her chest, resting it right above her own wildly thrumming heart.

She looks at you, smiling through tears of old pains, joy and ever bursting affection, and answers in a breath that summarizes your entire history.

"In a heartbeat."

The sun dips lower under the sea with each wave, lending its splendor to the moon, which (ever self-conscious) shows the same side of her face under the cover of night. Reflecting such light into a dreamy blue glow mirrored by the stars dusting the sky; so dense and bright in this part of the globe where the air is limpid and immaculate, and as many as the grains of white sand on this beach.

They have already started blinking from above.

The only billions of witnesses of this moment. And you feel a strange kinship with such audience taking their seat for the night:

A synchronous rotation that you have always found as a perfectly fitting analogy to be compared to your relationship with Piper.

And as she laces her hand onto the back of your neck and kisses you under those precious, ancient dots that glimmer upon you like a blessing, that feeling- that sprout born from that inexplicably primal knowledge, grows and blossoms.

Vast and glorious.

Intertwined.

Like an eternally flowering rose vine stretching towards forever.

_**Fin**_

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**Thanks for reading everyone :)**


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